


Don't Drink the (Maple) Water

by christah88



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Universe, F/M, Gen, Kind-of canon (if you tilt your head and squint), Overcurrent of Batshit, Undercurrent of Bughead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-08 23:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11656866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christah88/pseuds/christah88
Summary: “Archie’s been drugged,” Betty tried to explain.“Drugged?” Veronica asked. Archie laughed, pointing at the dangerous slant of her eyebrows.“The water’s been laced,” Jughead told her.“Laced with what?” Veronica demanded. Betty and Jughead exchanged a glance.“With…” Betty sighed, “…mushrooms.”“Magicmushrooms,” Archie elaborated, attempting to match Veronica’s eyebrows with his own.“Oh no,” Veronica shook her head. “Uh uh. No way did I spend my pubescence playing spectator to the rise and demise of Selena and the Biebs in nightclubs across Manhattan, only to witness my first drug-fueled hallucinogenic meltdown inRiverdale.”--------Archie takes a trip, Veronica wears a large hat, and Betty and Jughead go on the case.





	1. Archie Takes a Trip

**Author's Note:**

> I recently went down the _Riverdale_ -rabbit hole, and for a while, I simply could not understand myself for this gleeful obsession with a high-school, Maple-drenched, rom-com/film noir, CW television show with hip music playing underneath every. single. scene.
> 
> However, I've come to realize that there are two main reasons I fell in love with this show, that make it extremely compelling in such an unexpected way:
> 
> 1\. The electric dynamic between Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones as opposites with a common moral core, and  
> 2\. The unapologetic, balls-to-the-walls, 100% Sisters-of-Quiet-Mercy-certifiable batshit _los tostitos locos_ nature of it all. And I've just gotta respect that, you know?
> 
> This fic is my attempt to honor both of these elements. It is set early season one, if you tilt your head, squint your eyes, and accept that summer comes between fall and winter.
> 
> (Please review if you enjoy this chapter more than a glass of maple-flavored water!)

Jughead Jones was not a man above enjoying a maple-seasoned pork slider now and again, but this was getting ridiculous.

Maple syrup-slathered french toast? Yes, please. Maple ham and cheese omelet? Eggs-ellent. Maple sugar candies in the shape of a moose head or decorative leaf? Dainty _and_ delicious. He could even spring for a maple-flavored milkshake from Pop’s if he was in an especially reckless mood.

But maple syrup on an otherwise pristine medium-rare cheeseburger, juices dripping delicately onto a toasted sesame-seed bun?

Now his feelings were getting hurt.

“As if we needed more proof that the Blossom clan are the maple-worshipping Illuminati of Riverdale,” he muttered to Archie, surveying the table of maple-flavored custards, cookies, salads, chips, french fries - there was even some kind of maple-and-green bean casserole. Jughead felt his shudder all the way down to his toes.

“Ah, come on, Jug,” Archie said, chomping through a sleeve of maple-crusted onion rings, “it’s still food, right?”

“Well, I mean, obviously,” Jughead conceded, taking a huge, suffering bite of his burger. He licked the syrup off his fingers irritably.

He’d inhaled half the sandwich before they reached the end of the counter. Archie peeled off two tens (courtesy of Fred Andrews) and handed them to the cashier with a mid-bite smile.

“Hey,” he coughed, wiping greasy crumbs off his mouth with his forearm, “you want something to drink?”

Jughead peered down at the tub of ice slowly melting on the counter, filled with tall fancy-looking glass bottles.

“’Sparkling water bubbled from Riverdale’s own Sweetwater River,’” he read, “’bottled by the Blossom family – hint of maple.’” He looked up at the cashier, eyebrows raised. “What, no fruit punch infused with blood of the innocents?”

Archie snorted, grabbing a bottle and tucking it under his arm. “So, you want one?” he asked.

“Thanks, Archie,” he said through another bite of his maple burger, “but I really, really don’t.”

Archie tossed over a few more bills for the water, and they headed off through the fairgrounds, the midsummer sun hot and snappy on the back of Jughead’s neck. He wiped greasy fingers on his jeans, tugged off his beanie for a few seconds of open-air relief, then pushed his hair to the side and jammed it stubbornly back on his head.

“Jug,” Archie side-eyed him as they passed the entrance to the Tunnel of Love (looking mighty cool and shady in the midday heat), “just take off the hat, man. You must be dying.”

“We’re all dying, Archie,” Jughead responded (predictably). “Every last one of us. Though this rollercoaster of life may deceive us into believing that the ups, the downs, the loop-de-loops of our everyday tribulations continue on ahead of us in a straight line to our unknowable future, the truth is that existence is more like a Ferris wheel, Archie, taking us through the roundabout paths of our lives from beginning to end, which is, in the end, just another beginning.”

“We could probably find you, like, a crown-shaped sweat band or something,” Archie suggested.

“I have an appearance to uphold, Arch,” Jughead said. “And as Riverdale’s consummate eccentric non-conformist – yeah, actually, a crown-shaped sweat band would fit my image pretty well,” he admitted.

“Nice,” Archie nodded. “I’ll get Veronica to look online – you know my dad still hasn’t sprung for Amazon Prime,” he lowered his voice, ashamed, before unscrewing the cap to his water and taking a swig. Then he straightened, looking around at the brightly-colored vendor tents dotting the lanes criss-crossing Riverdale’s fairgrounds. “Or maybe we’ll find something at one of these stands!”

Jughead shook his head. “Everything here is doused in the sickly-sweet stench of maple,” he said, disgusted. “Let’s just find some rigged carnival games so you can demonstrate your athletic prowess and drop twenty bucks to win a five-dollar teddy bear for some passing female.”

“Alright!” Archie agreed enthusiastically, knocking back the last of his onion rings and striding off down the lane. He crumpled his greasy wrapper and shot a hole-in-one _(wrong sport,_ Jughead reminded himself) into a nearby trash can.

“He scores!” Archie cheered, raising his arms in victory as he turned to flash a grin at his best friend. “Fifteen bucks, _tops,_ and that teddy bear is mine, Jughead,” he bet, pointing a finger at him.

Jughead rolled his eyes, fighting back a smile. “I think you’re still missing the point, Arch,” he said, pulling at his collar to unstick his shirt from his chest. They ambled across the field, the curves and drops of the Sky Coaster tall and threatening in the background.

“Two rounds,” Archie declared when they stopped in front of a basketball toss with five rings set up at various heights and distances, different points assigned to each. He slapped his cash down for the carnie, who gamely rolled two balls across the counter at him. Archie picked up one and turned, offering it to Jughead.

“Yeah, no,” he shook his head. “This game is for people possessed of that rare gift known as hand-eye coordination.”

“C’mon, Jug,” Archie wheedled. “When was the last time you even tried your arm at throwing?”

“Pretty sure I was in the sixth grade when F.P. traded my catcher’s glove for a six-pack and some smokes,” Jughead mused. “So, probably, before then.”

“Well, forget that,” Archie said, shoving the ball against his chest. “I’ll bet you’re really good, and you’re definitely way more jacked now.”

“Than I was when I was twelve?” Jughead raised his eyebrows, shifting the ball in his hands. “Gee, thanks, Archie.”

“Oh, stop your frowning, Severus Snape,” Archie said, throwing out his arms and tilting back his head. “It’s a beautiful day! Look, the clouds are smiling at us!”

Jughead squinted at him, then up at the unassuming white clouds drifting high across the sky. “That’s poetic of you,” he said.

Archie laughed and lined up his first shot. Jughead watched, an uneasy tickle sliding down his back. Archie’s ball slammed against the backboard and bounced a good fifteen feet down the road behind them.

“Whoa, easy there, tiger,” Jughead muttered as Archie ran after it, white teeth glittering in a wide smile. He looked up at the carnie standing in the corner of the booth; the carnie stared blankly back. Although Jughead had long been a fan of the psychological warfare of staring down strangers who dared stare at him, something in the carnie’s utter lack of response, his empty eyes set back in his stringy head, made Jughead raise the white flag early, and he turned away to look for Archie.

“Whoopsie-daisies!” Archie giggled, skipping back up to the booth, sweat glistening at his temples. He gasped, slammed the basketball firmly on the counter, and took a long, protracted swig of his water.

“Uh, did you just say, ‘whoopsie-daisies’?” Jughead asked, highly concerned.

Archie gulped down the rest of the bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing dauntlessly, clear streams dribbling down his chin. When he was done, he leaned back with a huge sigh, then straightened to fix Jughead with a look. Jughead’s heart skipped unpleasantly. Archie’s pupils were blown so wide not even a ring of his usual browns could be seen in the glare of the overhead sun. It was a bit like gazing at H.P. Lovecraft’s The Unnamable, Jughead thought, or the empty, unrecognizable nothingness of a black hole imploding.

“Go on!” Archie urged him. “Let’s see what you’ve got! ‘Hit me with your best shot!’” he sang, snapping his fingers wildly off-beat.

Jughead groaned. “It is way too hot out for Pat Benatar, Archie.”

Archie panted, wiping his brow. “Who?” he said.

Jughead lined up his throw, giving himself the easiest target. Surprisingly enough, the ball jostled on the ring a few times before dropping through.

“Jughead Jones!” Archie cheered, lifting his arms in victory. “The man, the myth, the legion!”

 _“Legend,_ Archie,” Jughead corrected him.

“Oh, it’s gonna be!” Archie nodded, then burst into laughter.

“Uh-” Jughead scratched the back of his neck, feeling a bit left out of this conversation, all the more so since he and Archie were the only two talking. “What?”

“Legend...wait for it _....Archie,”_ Archie gave his best Barney Stinson impersonation, ruined somewhat by dissolving immediately into giggles.

“Man, that is...” Jughead shook his head, now completely perturbed, “...not good.”

Archie grew serious again when he stepped up for his next throw, lining up his shot in slow-motion. Unfortunately, he threw the ball in slow-motion, too, and it wobbled off his fingertips to bounce dejectedly at his feet. Archie scrambled to the ground with much more enthusiasm than required to retrieve it.

“Archie,” Jughead muttered when Archie stood back up, setting a hand on his friend’s shoulder to lean in and peer at his face. “Did you take something? Something that maybe you shouldn’t have?”

Archie gazed back at him solemnly. “I take everything that’s given to me,” he said, the wonder of revelation in his voice. “And then I shape it into something new and give it to someone else.” He ran a hand through his hair, his black eyes widening even further. “Everything is the same, Jughead, but when we touch it, we give a piece of _ourselves_ and, and- that’s how we make something _new.”_

“No, I mean, like drugs,” Jughead whispered, frustrated. “Are you high?”

Archie blinked back at him, considering this. “You know, Jug,” he said, nodding slowly, “I think I might be.”

Jughead looked around at the families and couples strolling by, trying to appear non-conspicuous. His fingers tightened, digging into Archie’s shoulder bones. “You know that’s your call and I’m not gonna judge you, but you could have warned me,” he hissed. “Also: we’re in public, in broad daylight, at Riverdale’s 75th damn Maple Fest, Archie.” He shook his head. “This does not strike me as the best place to experiment, Mr. I-Am-the-Walrus.”

But Archie shook his head at him, growing increasingly distressed. “I didn’t take anything, I swear!” His wide eyes flicked around the colorful, noisy lane of carnival games and cotton candy vendors. Jughead watched the dawn of paranoia rise in his gaze. “You know I wouldn’t - I’ve got football! They won’t let me play if I’m on drugs! And my music!” He clutched at his hair in emotional agony. “Jughead - _what about my music?!”_

“Alright, take it easy, Tom Jones,” Jughead muttered, giving the carnie a quick wave as he guided Archie away from the booth and down the road. “You swear you didn’t take anything?” he double-checked. His rapidly devolving friend shook his head and moaned.

“Everything that was on the inside is now on the outside,” Archie whispered, staring at his hands.

“Uh- right,” Jughead raised his eyebrows but chose not to pursue this line of thought. “So when did you start seeing the underlying truth of the universe, exactly?”

Archie shrugged, squinting as he brought his hand directly in front of his nose, entranced. “By the basketball toss, you were there,” he said. He dropped his hand and stared at Jughead with creepy drug-addled eyes. “The- the carnie!” he gasped. “He did it! He drugged me!”

“Keep your voice down, Jim Morrison,” Jughead hissed at him. Archie’s head snapped back and forth as he looked at the passersby ambling up and down the lane. A group of three little kids squealed and laughed as one of the boys stole a lick of his friend’s dripping popsicle. An (objectively) good-looking couple probably a few years older than Jughead, walked by with their arms crisscrossed, their hands tucked securely in each other’s back pockets. Two vendors sat under their tents, back from their wares, sipping flimsy cups of beers, sweaty hats pushed back on their heads.

“Oh god,” Archie groaned. “I’m a scourge on this rich tapestry of life!” He set his shoulders and started to march back the way they had come.

“Whoa, whoa,” Jughead jumped in front of him. “Don’t go back to that carnie, Arch, it doesn’t make any sense. He couldn’t have slipped you anything; he didn’t even touch you.”

Archie stopped, so tense he was nearly vibrating. “Jughead,” he said, trying valiantly to get his eyes to focus on him, “you’re a great person. There is so much light inside you- you should let it out more often.” He leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t tell my dad I got high, okay?”

Jughead nodded, confused. Of course he wasn’t going to-

“Gotta go, Jug, bye!” Archie spun around and ran away down the lane.

Jughead, stunned, watched his copper head disappear into the crowd. “Punk-ass grifter,” he muttered, and charged after him.

* * *

 

Veronica loved Smithers, really she did, and Betty was bae, no doubt, but if the two of them did not stop chattering about that new “X-Files” meets “Stand By Me” Netflix show (with five, count them, _five_ 12-year-olds, how cool could it be?), Veronica was gonna have to take a page from the universe’s playbook because there was going to be a _very_ Big Bang.

“And you just feel that Will is a part of the group, even though he’s apart from them for the whole season, you know?” Betty was saying.

“He casts a mighty long shadow,” Smithers nodded. “And that Nancy! From high school sweetheart to monster hunter-”

“Excuse me!” Veronica interjected. “Spoilers much?”

Betty turned to her guiltily. “Sorry, V,” she said. “But you’ve got to watch it, it’s my new favorite show!” She brightened considerably with an idea. “Let’s binge the first few episodes tonight after we get back from Maple Fest!”

Veronica was not all that adept at passing on a good eye roll, but for Betty Cooper, she dredged up a few ounces of sincerity (from somewhere _very_ deep down).

“Betty, you know you’re my bestie, in Riverdale and otherwise,” Betty smiled at her, pleased, “but I’m not sure our tastes in media entertainment are quite on the same wavelength.”

Betty pinned her with an exasperated-slash-amused look exchanged between BFFs worldwide. “And what wavelength is that?” she asked.

“Oh, you know,” Veronica said, tossing her hair and straightening her gold filament bracelets, “you like mysteries, and adventure, and sci-fi, and I’m more of a… fashion, relationships and psychological thrillers kind of a girl!”

“Veronica, ‘The Bachelor’ is _not_ a psychological thriller,” Betty informed her.

Veronica huffed. “Please,” she said, “Elimination round? Private confessionals? You can’t make up the stuff that comes out of a human mind under siege.”

“Those shows _are_ made up,” Betty argued. “They’re all staged.”

Veronica gasped. “Take that back, Betty Cooper!” she demanded. “You have no basis for saying such a thing!”

Apparently Betty didn’t get the memo about not rolling her eyes at her bestie, because she went ahead and rolled her eyes at Veronica. “Except for every single interview done with a contestant after the show was over,” she said.

“You know, I have _so_ many things I could say to you about your 98 Degrees obsession, but I choose not to, because, um, _feelings,”_ Veronica sniffed.

“What’s wrong with 98 Degrees?” Betty asked, attempting to pull off a devil-may-care attitude, her pink cheeks and shifty eyes giving her away. “They’re catchy and relaxing, and I like the way their voices blend together.”

“Yeah, they were fine, _fifteen years ago!”_ Veronica said. “And they weren’t even that hot then. At least go old school Backstreet Boys, if you’re not gonna join the rest of us in this decade and listen to One Direction.”

“This decade is overrated,” Betty grumbled. She looked up at Smithers, an embarrassed smile curling her lips. “I hope you don’t think this is all we talk about, Smithers,” she said.

“What do you want him to think we talk about?” Veronica asked before Smithers could get a word in slantwise _or_ edgewise. “The tenth dimension? Gravitational waves? The Pythagorean theorem?”

“Okay, A-squared plus B-squared might equal C-squared, but one of these things is _not_ like the others,” Betty responded.

“Yeah, one of them I learned in Intro to Geometry, the other two I heard on NPR,” Veronica said.

“Oh, very good, Miss Lodge,” Smithers said, “you can never go wrong with an hour or two of NPR. I personally enjoy _All Things Considered_ a few times a week.”

“I like _Car Talk,”_ Betty enthused.

Veronica shook her head. “Where did you even come from?” she wondered aloud. “And everyone knows that _Wait Wait... Don’t Tell Me,_ followed by _Pop Culture Happy Hour_ are the best NPR programs.” She picked up her handbag from Smithers’ front counter and slung it over her shoulder. “Even if NPR _is_ a hot bed for left-wing commie conspiracies.”

Betty and Smithers stared at her, wide-eyed.

“Joking!” she assured them. “Like I’m gonna talk politics in _this_ election cycle when an axe-murderer is on the loose.” She straightened her skirt, then set her giant sun hat on her head. “I don’t fancy washing up on the shore of Sweetwater River for my less-than-informed political beliefs, thank you very much.”

“Veronica!” Betty scolded her. “You shouldn’t joke like that. And- are you putting on _gloves?_ Why, V? Just... why?”

Veronica tugged the delicate lace gloves down her wrists to slide tight on her fingers. “It’s before Labor Day, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’m not a savage. Alright, let’s get a move on, shall we? I thought you told Archie we would meet him by two.”

Betty straightened at the reminder and checked her pink watch. “Yep, we gotta go,” she agreed and gave Smithers a warm smile. “Have a great day, Smithers- say hello to Emily for me!”

“Emily?” Veronica asked in a low voice as they exited the Pembroke’s air-conditioned interior and stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stood on the top stoop for a moment as her eyes adjusted, fiddling with the placement of her hat.

“His granddaughter,” Betty said, turning from her spot at the foot of the stair to blink up at her. “I actually babysat her once, when the Rice girls had a slumber party…” she trailed off, gazing at her friend’s choice of footwear in dismay. “Veronica!” she exclaimed. “What in god’s name are _those?”_ She pointed an accusing finger at Veronica’s feet.

Veronica struck a flirty pose. “Aren’t they adorable? They’re so last season, but it’s not like that matters much in Riverdale-”

“Uh uh,” Betty shook her head. “Not happening.” She gave a great, put-upon sigh and climbed back up the stairs wearily, pushing Veronica through the door. “Sorry, Smithers,” she called over her shoulder as she ushered Veronica to the elevator, “you didn’t think you could get rid of us without at least one fashion emergency, did you?”

Smithers chuckled and waved at them indulgently.

“Betty!” Veronica protested. “This is really not necessary-” Betty stopped suddenly and Veronica wobbled a few steps in a drunken circle before finding her balance again atop her five-inch stiletto heels.

“Oh, yes it is, V,” Betty said, punching the elevator button decisively. “We are going to a _fair,_ Veronica- a _carnival._ Thousands of people come every year from all over the state to Riverdale’s annual Maple Fest to celebrate our prosperous maple empire!”

“Please tell me those words did not just come out of your mouth, or at least tell me they didn’t come out in that order,” Veronica begged.

“There’s food and games and rides,” Betty continued, ignoring her, “the Tunnel of Love, and this actually kind-of-intimidating Sky Coaster, even a mechanical bull- and it’s all very fun (and _very_ Riverdale), but you can’t do any of those things if you can’t walk.” The doors slid open with a light _ding_ and Betty shoved her in the elevator. “Besides, as your BFF, I am allowed one revision to your ensemble per day.” She crossed her arms prissily, daring Veronica to challenge her.

Veronica snorted. “What bro-sephina code of conduct did you find that one in?”

Betty sniffed, pulling at the ends of her ponytail. She watched the lights move behind the floor numbers as they ascended toward the penthouse. “I think it was in _Mean Girls,”_ she said innocently.

Veronica well and truly gasped at that, a very dramatic gasp that bubbled up from her stiletto-ensconced toes to her pearls-bedecked chest, which swelled in so much outrage she was forced to place a quavering hand upon it. “Betty!” she exclaimed. “You know the one true tragedy of my life is that I got sick from an expired Red Bull when I tried watching _Mean Girls_ for the first time, and now cannot get past the first ten minutes due to my lingering PTSD!”

Betty shrugged. “Sorry, V,” she said, stepping off the elevator and into the Lodge residence, ponytail swinging, “But I’m _pretty_ sure that’s where I heard it.” (It wasn’t.)

Five shoe-changes and forty minutes later, they finally purchased their admissions and passed the bright green entry booth underneath a wide banner reading, 'Welcome to Riverdale’s 75th Annual Maple Fest – _Things Might Get Sticky!'_

They looked around at the rickety booths and stalls, the confusing array of signs and arrows pointing in every direction, the masses of sweaty fairgoers in t-shirts and flip-flops, simmering on the blacktop.

“Into the void, I suppose,” Veronica said with more gumption than she actually felt. “Still nothing?” she asked as Betty took her phone from her ear and slid it in her pocket in frustration.

“He’s not picking up,” Betty said, “but I texted him and Jug that we’re here, so I’m sure it won’t be long before-” she broke off, staring down the road to their right. Veronica took a step past her to see what she was looking at, only to find the man himself, Archie Andrews, wandering along the lane, swiveling back and forth to peer at the vendors in their brightly colored tents.

“Archie!” Betty called, waving a hand. Archie pulled up short, his head snapping around to stare at them. Betty hurried forward to greet him. Veronica followed, her hat giving her a very wide berth amongst the other fairgoers.

“Hey, I tried calling you,” Betty was saying as she approached, reaching out to place a hand on Archie’s bicep. Archie followed the movement of her fingers before looking up at her with wide eyes.

“Is everything okay?” Betty grew concerned at his lack of response. She peered around behind him. “Where’s Juggie?”

Archie glanced to the side as if expecting to find Jughead waiting peevishly beside him per usual. His eyes locked on Veronica and traveled up and down and around her giant hat.

“Oh my god,” Archie murmured.

“I know, right?” Veronica simpered, tilting the hat coquettishly.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Archie looked between them. “Betts... Ronnie... you’re both so beautiful, you know? Inside _and_ outside,” he gave Betty a brief hug, then seized Veronica’s shoulders, eyeing her sun hat warily. Eventually he wrestled his way under it to give her a peck on the cheek. “Love you guys!” he said and hurried down a side path branching away from them.

“Archie-” Veronica attempted to call after him.

Archie turned in response, but his eyes locked on something behind them, panic evident on his features. “Gotta go, sorry!” he waved hastily and took off down the road.

Veronica and Betty stared after him, dumbfounded.

“Do you think it was my hat?” Veronica asked.

Footsteps slapped up the blacktop behind them. They turned to find Jughead panting, rubbing at a stitch in his side, sweat glistening on his temples and staining the collar of his t-shirt. He pulled off his beanie and waved it testily in front of his face. One hand pushed through an unruly mess of dark curls. His tanned armed glistened in the afternoon heat, his ratty shirt lifting to reveal a sliver of lighter skin at his hips.

Veronica’s eyebrows lifted in spite of herself. The whole awkward duckling takes off her glasses and lets down her hair to become a stunning swan story was so 1999, but _this_ was a transformation she could get behind. It was like watching Dan Rad retire those round spectacles for chiseled abs in preparation for his full-nude stage debut (Veronica had found the video online a few years ago, and- _thank you, thigh press,_ that was all she was going to say about that).

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” she purred.

He gave her an annoyed look. “What?” he demanded. “And what the hell is on your head?”

Veronica sighed. Really, had no one in Riverdale watched the classic derby scene in _My Fair Lady?_

“Jug, what’s going on with Archie?” Betty asked. “We just ran into him, but he took off again right after saying how much he loved us.”

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Sounds about right,” he grumbled. “Which way did he go?”

Betty pointed. Jughead followed her finger to study the rickety sign indicating the attraction at the end of the road.

“Oh no,” he groaned.

Veronica peered up at it from underneath her hat.

 _Merlin’s Mystical House of Mirrors, Magic and Mysteries to Melt Your Mind_ it read.

“Why ‘oh no’?” Veronica asked.

“Besides the offensively excessive use of alliteration?” Jughead said. “A house of mirrors is the _last_ place Archie should be right now.”

Veronica supposed Jughead thought that was all the explanation they needed, because he took an aggrieved breath and set off down the road without looking back.

* * *

 

The clouds were friendly clouds, Archie was confident about that.

They had drifted nice and easy high above his head, pulling apart and twirling back together in a very happy way. He’d waved at them, and they had waved back, smiling broadly.

Archie missed them.

The sky was way too angry without them there. It was bright, and harsh, and- Archie blinked. His eyebrows were sore from squinting. Why did everyone put up with the sky, anyway? It was so rude.

A house loomed ahead, getting the better of Archie height-wise. He craned his neck and leaned back back back back – _oof._ His spine crunched.

The house was tall, Archie decided. It promised darkness and relief, an escape from the negative waves pulsing down from the resentful sky.

The door creaked and clicked shut behind him. His tennis shoes scuffed softly across the dusty floor. Archie sighed as he took in the dark anteroom, feeling better already.

A light gleamed peacefully ahead. Archie glanced around, but no one appeared to ask him questions or demand more of his dad’s money from him. He paced down the hallway and entered the next room.

He stood inside a gleaming mahogany-decorated study. A leather chair beckoned enticingly next to a side-table, where half a glass of amber liquid and an open book were propped, forgotten. Bookshelves lined the walls except where a few landscape paintings were hung tastefully.

Archie took a few steps into the center of the room and looked around. He liked this room. It reminded him of his Grandpa Pete, from way back in Archie’s early youth when he would-

Archie stopped, heart pounding. A strange shuffling sound, like a rope crank being turned, rose up from behind the walls. He ducked and stared in shock as the room began to move, floorboards and panels sliding into each other. The leather chair turned and climbed up the wall, the open book and half-filled glass moving improbably with it along the corner and up to the ceiling.

Archie closed his eyes and clutched the edge of the floor beneath his feet-

Wait.

The _edge_ of the floor?

He looked down to see that he was standing on some kind of bridge, stretching across the center of the room while the walls continued to move underneath his feet.

His eyes traveled down the length of the bridge, pulling his gaze to a door on the other side of the room-

He dashed down the plank, threw open the door and hurled himself onto the other side.

He looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the leather chair making its shaky way down the opposite wall before the door snapped shut and he leaned against it, breathing heavily.

He took a few moments to calm his racing heart. He gulped down several lungfuls of air, trying to cleanse himself of the tense, shattered paranoia that crowded around the ragged edges of his jumbled consciousness.

 _Just- let’s get out of here, okay?_ he told himself. _Then I’ll call my dad to take me home._ He shuddered at the idea of calling his father out of the middle of a weekend workday because he was tripping (on drugs), but another part of him knew that Fred Andrews would want Archie to count on his help in such a dire pinch. He took another deep breath and looked up, taking in his surroundings.

A row of mirrors glittered before him.

Archie stepped forward warily. His reflection peered back at him, bemused, projected down the lane over and over again on twenty different mirrors.

A faint whirring sound rose up from the corner. Archie turned to it, squinting, but then the sound echoed back to him from the other side of the room. He spun a full circle, trying to pinpoint its source, but it eluded him.

A click reverberated through the dusty light streaming from the windows high above.

Then the music started, brash and chirpy.

_“It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone…”_

He turned another circle, but the bright rhythm seeped up from the floorboards into his feet, which moved him down the lane of mirrors.

_“It’s not unusual to have fun with anyone…”_

He stepped up and looked back at his own reflection, distorted and impossibly skinny. He blinked and ran a hand through his hair, distressed-

His reflection smiled back at him.

Archie stared, heart pounding.

The man in the mirror winked.

 _I’m the Archie who bailed on Jughead,_ his reflection said.

Archie stepped backward, trembling. His left shoulder knocked into something hard, and he jumped around, landing in a solid offensive tackle position.

Another reflection looked back at him, white-faced, knuckles stretched tight across the back of his fists.

 _I’m the Archie who chose music over helping his own father with his work,_ the other Archie taunted him.

Archie brought his hands up to his eyes and moaned.

This was a mistake, the reasonable voice in Archie’s head decided. He needed to get out of here - _now._ This – wacko – garage full of mirrors, this macabre fun house, or whatever it was supposed to be, was not the right place for him in his current state.

He shuffled along the dark hallway, searching desperately for an opening through which he might escape, staunchly avoiding the faces, the wide dark eyes that looked back at him curiously.

_I’m the Archie who slept with Miss Grundy and didn’t tell anyone about what they heard at Sweetwater River._

_“It’s not unusual to see me cry, I wanna die…”_

Archie clutched the hair at his temples, then picked up his pace, breaking out into a run. He skidded around a corner and jogged down another dark hallway, sneakers squeaking. He stopped when he reached a wall, cold bright mirrors gleaming back at him. He swiveled back and forth, eyes flitting desperately for a break in the road. A tall young man sneered down at him, copper glinting cruelly in the glare from the high afternoon sun.

 _I’m the Archie who couldn’t choose his very good friend, his faithful and lovely Betty, over himself,_ Archie declared.

_“Love will never do what you want it to, why can’t this crazy love be mine….”_

“Help!” he screamed. “Somebody help me!” He shoved his shoulder against the wall of mirrors and began running back down the hallway the way he came. Whenever he ran up against a break in the wall, he turned into it, but the maze continued endlessly, a thousand Archies watching his struggle, refusing to help him.

 _I’m Archie,_ he tried to assure himself. _They’re not real,_ I’m _real,_ I’m _Archie-_

 _But who is that?_ a voice asked, cruel and indifferent.

He tripped, catching his toe on the back of his heel, and landed on his knee painfully.

“I need to get out of here!” he yelled desperately. “Can somebody turn on the lights and help me!”

He thought he heard a door slam from somewhere in the building and looked up hopefully.

Then the click echoed around the lane of mirrors and snapped in Archie’s ears, heralding the start of the music again.

Archie moaned and pulled his legs around, pressing his eyes into his knees.

_“It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone…”_

_It’s not real, it’s not real, none of it’s real,_ he chanted to himself.

 _You’re not real,_ another Archie whispered in his ear.

He kept his eyes closed, rocking back and forth, clutching desperately at his calves, and didn’t notice when the lights flickered on above him.

* * *

 

If Jughead was surprised to see Sheriff Keller striding up the dead-end lane to Merlin’s Mystical House of Mirrors, he hid it well, so Betty followed his lead.

“Someone needs to turn the lights on in there,” he demanded without further introduction, holding the door open behind him. “Our friend - something happened to him - he’s acting really oddly, and he’s stuck in this stupid house-”

Sheriff Keller strode through the door and unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. Betty stood behind, propping the door open with her foot to keep the afternoon light in the dusty anteroom.

“This is Sheriff Keller,” he radioed, a beep preceding his transmission. “Shut it down, Gary, we’ve got another one, wandered right into the evacuation center.”

Jughead turned and looked at Betty, eyebrows raised.

Another beep sounded and then, “Copy, Keller, bring him on back. We’ve had two more since you left.” The transmission scratched through the eerie quiet, a profound sense of uneasiness unsettling Betty so much she felt it prickle down her ponytail.

“Two more what now?” Veronica asked, yanking off her hat as she pushed herself inside. “Evacuation center for _what?”_

Sheriff Keller turned with a sigh and opened his mouth to answer- but then footsteps echoed across the ceiling above their heads, and in another second, bright floodlights flicked on, dousing the fun house in a fluorescent white, an unpleasant buzz reverberating around the walls.

They heard a faint pounding from deeper inside the house, and then, a shout- “Somebody help me! Somebody get me out of here!”

Jughead took off through the opposite doors, Betty at his heels. Someone might have called behind them, but they skidded around the corner and into a peaceful-looking study, except that all the furniture was on the ceiling and the bookshelves were hanging upside-down. Jughead looked around quickly, cursed under his breath, and ran across into the next room.

The overhead lights reflected off a hundred mirrors stacked in a haphazard maze and burned Betty’s eyes. A sickly-sweet smell of mustiness and sweat settled underneath the dust in the room.

“Archie!” she yelled, wide eyes travelling down the nearest row of mirrors. “Archie, where are you!”

They waited a breath, and then-

“I’m Archie!” they heard, quite closeby. “I’m here, help me!” They followed his voice down one hallway, heads swiveling back and forth as they yelled out to each other.

“We’re coming, buddy!” Jughead assured him, and Betty would have raised her eyebrows and smiled at the endearment if the situation weren’t so disquieting.

They paced a few hallways, turned two corners, retraced their steps once, and finally found him huddled on the floor, his back pressed up against a wall of mirrors, his head clasped firmly in his hands.

“Archie!” Betty dropped to her knees beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Archie,” she said soothingly, wrapping her fingers around one wrist in attempt to get him to look up at her. “We’re going to get you out of here-”

Her breath caught in her throat when he raised his head and blinked at her with black eyes fully-dilated.

“I’m Archie,” he whispered at her desperately, “but who’s Archie?”

“Uh-” she started, uncertain.

“C’mon,” Jughead announced, the voice of reason as he slung an arm around Archie’s back and prodded him up to his feet. “Let’s find our way out of here, what do you say?”

Archie swiveled around to gaze at him full in the face. “You’re so smart, Jug,” he said, voice slurring just the slightest. “You always know just what to do-”

“Alright, let’s not start that again,” Jughead said crisply, an undercurrent of discomfort evident beneath his bravado.

They turned as a unit, Betty and Jughead balancing him on either side, and pulled up short, hearts pounding in unison, when a man with bright blue hair appeared through the wall.

“Who’s that?” Archie demanded. “Do you see him, too? Who is he? Why is his hair blue? What is he doing here?”

“Archie, breathe,” Betty begged him. “We see him, too. I don’t know why he’s here, and I assume his hair is blue because he likes it that way.”

The man approached them cautiously.

“Hello,” he said, just a few steps past where he’d first appeared. “I’m Gary. I work here. If you follow me, I’ll take you into the back with the others.”

Jughead regarded him suspiciously. “What others?” he demanded.

“The other victims,” Gary answered, and turned, beckoning them to follow. Betty and Jughead exchanged a look behind Archie’s head, then ushered him down the hallway behind Gary.

“We’ve seen five cases already,” Gary told them over his shoulder as they pushed through a hidden door into a dark, cramped space that they had to turn perpendicular to fit through. “Your friend here is the sixth.”

“Case of what?” Betty asked. Archie’s arm slipped off her shoulder, and she hurriedly shifted her grip around his waist.

“Someone’s been slipping Maple Fest fairgoers psilocybin, very large doses of it, probably through the food.”

“Psilocybin?” Betty repeated, confused.

“Magic mushrooms,” Gary clarified.

Betty looked up and back at Archie with wide eyes.

They exited the cramped hall into a large concrete garage filled with rows and rows of old festival equipment. There was a broken-down dunk tank in pieces, a deflated bouncy castle, a stack of dusty old pinball machines, and a scratched-up rock climbing wall towering in the corner. Archie peered up at an old stage proscenium decoration, painted clown faces grinning luridly down at him, and shuddered.

“Let’s let him calm down a bit in here,” Gary led them to a darkened office set along the garage wall. They guided Archie into a scratchy-looking chair behind a nondescript wood desk. Archie sighed deeply and leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

“This is a much better place,” he said, greatly relieved. “This desk is not judging me for everything that was once on the inside.”

This comment did not help Betty’s unease, but a soft knock on the door drew their attention.

Sheriff Keller stood outside the office and motioned for her and Jughead to join him. They left Archie to his peaceful rest, leaving the door open just a crack behind them. Gary strode off back the way they came, disappearing from sight when he ducked back into the low-hanging concrete hallway.

“When did you notice your friend’s behavior becoming strange?” the Sheriff asked, looking between them. Betty glanced at Jughead, who scratched the back of his neck and shrugged.

“About an hour ago,” he said, “right after we ate lunch.”

“And what did your friend-”

“Archie,” Betty murmured. Sheriff Keller’s eyes flickered over her.

“What did Archie have for lunch?” he asked.

“Those disgusting maple-flavored onion rings,” Jughead answered. “And an utterly inconceivable bottle of maple-flavored water.”

The Sheriff nodded. “It’s the same with the others,” he sighed. “Someone must have gotten their hands on a case of flavored water before it was delivered this morning.” He shook his head. “Somebody’s inane idea of a fun prank, no doubt. Well, if you want to call his parents, it would probably be best to get him to a familiar place-”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Betty asked. “Any leads we can follow up on for you?”

But the Sheriff shook his head. “That wouldn’t be appropriate-” he started.

“We want to help!” Betty exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height. “Our friend is tripping!” she gestured toward the desk where Archie sat, staring diligently at his hands.

“Yeah, and he’s _really_ bad at it,” Jughead said.

“Betty!” they heard a voice call behind them. “Jughead!” They turned to see Veronica marching across the garage at them, Gary with the blue hair following at a careful distance.

“Did you find him?” she demanded when she reached them. “This man-” she brandished her giant hat behind her at Gary, who leaned back warily, “-told me you had, and that you were safe, but my father always taught me to beware of people who purposely make strange fashion decisions-”

“Veronica!” Betty scolded her, embarrassed by her friend’s lack of tact, but Gary just smirked and gestured her toward the office.

“Your friend is in there, Princess,” he said, “but you might want to leave the hat outside, I doubt it will fit through the doors.”

Veronica glowered at his back as he turned and left them again, then pushed her way into the office.

Betty looked back at Sheriff Keller, opening her mouth to try again to convince him to accept their help, but his radio beeped with another call, and he waved them away.

She sighed and walked through the door that Jughead held open for her. He caught her eye and gave her a small, reassuring smile.

Veronica stood over Archie, peering down into his wide black eyes. Archie stared back up at her, pinned to the chair like a bug to a collection board.

She looked over her shoulder at them where they stood, arms crossed, just inside the office. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked.

“Archie’s been drugged,” Betty tried to explain.

 _“Drugged?”_ Veronica asked. Archie laughed, pointing at the dangerous slant of her eyebrows.

“The water’s been laced,” Jughead told her.

“Laced with what?” Veronica demanded. Betty and Jughead exchanged a glance.

“With…” Betty sighed, “…mushrooms.”

 _“Magic_ mushrooms,” Archie elaborated, attempting to match Veronica’s eyebrows with his own.

“Oh no,” Veronica shook her head. “Uh uh. No way did I spend my pubescence playing spectator to the rise and demise of Selena and the Biebs in nightclubs across Manhattan, only to witness my first drug-fueled hallucinogenic meltdown in _Riverdale.”_

“I can’t believe this,” Betty said, turning to Jughead. “Archie can just be drugged in broad daylight - someone’s laced an entire case of water without anyone knowing-”

“Sheriff Keller _thinks_ it’s one case,” Jughead said. “But it could very well be more than that.”

Betty shook her head.

“I can’t just stand around, waiting for Archie to come down off Psychedelic Mountain,” she protested, “and meanwhile, more victims will keep turning up. I want to _do_ something, ask around, see if we can discover something that Sheriff Keller might not be able to.” Her hands twisted in her short jean skirt as she looked up at Jughead. “What do you think?” she asked. “Are you with me?”

“Betty,” he said steadily, “when it comes to sticking my nose in places it doesn’t belong to find the truth about what’s really going on underneath Riverdale’s pastel-and-neon exterior, I am _always_ with you.”

Betty felt her answering smile rise up from her candy-pink toenails, and with it, a measure of relief from the simmering anxiety always just below the surface.

Maybe, she thought, she and Jughead could find the truth about what happened to Archie. Maybe the truth was what Riverdale needed, what _she_ needed, in order to move on without this constant sense of unease tailing her wherever she went.

Maybe they could help - maybe she could _finally_ make a difference.

 

 

Maybe.


	2. Kevin Tells a Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to village_skeptic, Raptorlily and all the others who have welcomed me so graciously to the Bughead community! I am on Tumblr as christah88 if you want to connect.
> 
> Please review if you enjoy this chapter more than a smelly rigged carnival game of Whack-a-Mole! (Warning: there is no Whack-a-Mole in this chapter.)

Kevin was aware that drugs were bad.

He’d sat through the DARE presentations with the rest of the fifth grade. He understood that the adults in his life were just trying to impart the lesson that experimentation would lead him down the terrifying road into despair and working at a Chili’s well into his 30s.

Take exhibit  _ numero uno: _ his dad, the Sheriff, who was even now at his couch-side, shuffling through notes in his desperate search for clues to help discover the criminal masterminds who laced the maple water at Riverdale’s own Maple Fest.

“Uh- dad?” Kevin said hesitantly, sitting up from his stiff repose on top of the couch in the staff break room nestled in the back of  _ Merlin’s Mystical House of Mirrors, Magic and Mysteries to Melt Your Mind. _ “I’m feeling much better, I think I’m good enough to head back out there and find my friends-”

Sheriff Keller studied him, light blue eyes flicking over him like a helicopter beam: bright, focused, and all-seeing. Kevin shuffled his hands under his legs, hunched his shoulders and gave a small, innocent smile.

The Sheriff set his notes to the side. “Alright,” he announced, “let’s take your vitals then.” He rolled his chair closer and grasped Kevin’s wrist between his thumb and two fingers, checking his watch for the time.

Kevin rolled his eyes but felt his lips twitching in spite of himself. “Doctor Mom,” he muttered.

His father shot him a look over his bifocals. He seemed satisfied that Kevin’s pulse had returned to a normal rate, and pulled a blood pressure cuff out of a pocket in his patrol bag.

“What,” Kevin deadpanned.

The Sheriff wrapped the band around his bicep, velcroing it tight, and leaned back in his chair, pumping the cuff until Kevin could feel his heart pulsing up and down his veins.

“Why do you have a blood pressure monitor in your Sheriff’s toolkit?” he asked.

His dad quirked up a corner of his mouth, studying the gauge attached to the cuff on Kevin’s arm. “So I can assess whether or not my son is too high to be released safely back into the public.”

Kevin’s eyes flicked back and forth. He wondered desperately if he should play it cool, and run the obvious risk of being found out about playing it cool, which is decidedly  _ not  _ very cool, or reassure his father that he could definitely handle mingling with the common folk, that he wouldn’t give away his secret or embarrass him to the gossips of Riverdale. Kevin didn’t even plan on talking to anyone at the fair, he just wanted to find his own personal Derek Jeter again and sneak a few rides through the Tunnel of Love-

“Alright, then,” Sheriff Keller took off his glasses and repocketed them in a case at his hip, “you seem to be relatively back to normal. As long as you’re sure you feel up to it, I think I can trust you to walk around the Maple Fest for the last few hours of daylight.”

Kevin stared at his father, a bit shellshocked.

“Really?” he asked. “You’re just going to let me go back out there-” he gestured to the window, the lurid tents crowding in the corners, the truly awful beeps and whirrs of the carnival games muffled through the walls, “-in my current state, back to the Maple Fest, where god only knows what might happen-”

“Kevin,” Sheriff Keller gave him a squint, “do you want stay here under house arrest with me?”

Kevin blinked, then hopped to attention, bending down to retrieve his bag at the foot of the couch and slinging it over his shoulder. “Ten-four,” he confirmed receipt of message. He paused in the doorway. “Thanks, dad,” he said, leaning against the door jamb. “I really do feel better,” he assured him. “Like I told you, I didn’t even drink that much of my water.”

Sheriff Keller smiled faintly at him. “You’ll be fine,” he waved him away. “It’s not like you’ll be the first kid to ever walk around the Maple Fest while high. At least you didn’t get that way on purpose,” he said over his shoulder.

“Right,” Kevin said, taking a step back, slightly ashamed of the release of tension in his shoulders, the loosening of the knot in his stomach, at the distance between them. “Well, good luck,” he said. His father gave him an answering cough, and Kevin turned to pace down the gray hallway, fluorescents flickering above his head.

He hitched his backpack higher and turned the corner toward the cluttered garage. He’d seen the double doors set beside the loading dock when his father had dragged him here, just a few hours before. It had been overly bright outside, and though Kevin had been loathe to forfeit his afternoon with the South Side cutie, he’d had to admit that the shade of the storage facility had been a welcome relief.

He swung his backpack around his front, rifling through the pockets for his cell phone. He’d call Joaquin, he decided, as soon as he got out of here-

“Kevin!” a voice called out ahead of him, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

_ “Betty? _ ” he asked, squinting with his whole face, unable to believe what his eyes were telling him (he was, after all, on drugs).

Betty laughed, a shocked laugh full of both questions and joy at coming across her friend so unexpectedly. She skipped down the hallway and landed at his feet.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, wide-eyed.

Kevin glanced behind her to find Jughead Jones shuffling toward them, hands in his pockets. “Uh-” Kevin swallowed momentarily, then decided to go with the curve ball. “My dad is working. What are you doing here?”

Betty leaned in close to their secret-telling space. Kevin leaned in as well, drawn by the serious look on her face.

“Archie’s tripping,” she said in a hushed voice. “Someone laced the water with  _ mushrooms.” _

Kevin looked up at Jughead, who had come to a halt at Betty’s shoulder. He shrugged, his lip quirking up when Kevin met his eyes.

“Sweet merciful Lady Gaga,” Kevin whispered. “That must be a sight to behold.”

Jughead snorted. Betty turned and shot him an aggrieved look.

“What?” Jughead protested, raising his shoulders defensively. “Hey, I engaged in more than my daily share of cardio chasing him across God’s good earth to Merlin’s Macabre House of Metaphysics... Mysticism, and... Macaroni- Marvelous Macademia- Marigold... Menopause-”

“Give up,” Betty ordered and faced Kevin again with a sigh. “Your dad didn’t tell you?” she prodded.

Kevin shook his head. “He’s been- uh, preoccupied,” he coughed. “Well, alrighty then, good to see you guys, but I’m gonna jet-” he jabbed his thumb awkwardly behind him.

“Wait-” Betty grabbed his shoulder and peered up in his face. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, Betts,” Kevin said, screwing up his face like she was being ridiculous. He stopped when he saw the hurt downturn of her lips. “Why- uh, why do you ask?”

Betty shrugged. “You seem a little... jumpy, I guess,” she said. “And I just told you that the water has been laced, and you had, like,  _ no  _ reaction whatsoever.”

Kevin sighed. “I mean- yeah, I knew that,” he admitted.

Betty brightened instantaneously. “So your father  _ did  _ tell you! Or-” she gasped, her eyes growing wide, “-did you run into some of the others by mistake when you came back here to find your dad?”

Kevin chewed on his lip. Damn Betty Cooper, “Private Eye” girl scout badge-winner, six years in a row.

“That’s- not exactly- what happened...” he hedged. He looked over Betty’s shoulder at Jughead for help, but Jughead just looked back at him, clearly waiting for an explanation.

“...Well?” Betty prompted after another second of silence.

“Why are you giving me the four-one-one?!” Kevin exclaimed, a shade of hysteria in his voice.

“The... four-one... what?” Betty repeated, confused.

“You know,” Kevin said, his chest rising in agitation. “Why are you, like, acting as if I’m your information central?”

Betty shook her head, eyes wide. “That’s not what I-”

“I don’t think you’re using that phrase correctly,” Jughead butted in helpfully.

They turned on him with matching excuse-me-what-is-your-malfunction faces.

He nodded decisively. “Yeah, I think you meant to say, ‘Why are you giving me the third degree?’” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “And then Betty here could say, ‘Cause I need the four-one-one, Kevs!’” He pumped an arm in what Kevin supposed was a weak oh-boy-Betty impersonation.

Kevin glared. “You do know Encyclopedia Brown had no friends, right?” he snapped.

“Never mind,” Betty waved their bickering away. “Kev, we want to help Archie,” she pleaded with him. “We want to help your dad find out who did this to him, and the others.” She blinked up at him with her Princess Elsa eyes. “Of  _ course  _ I understand if you can’t tell us anything because the Sheriff asked you not to,” she curled her lips in a crooked smile, “but you can’t blame a wannabe Nancy Drew for asking, right?”

Kevin looked down in her warm blue eyes. Yep, he thought, damn damn DAMN Betty Cooper to hell in a Cheryl-Blossom-red-miniskirt.

“Oh, fine,” he relented, exasperated. “The truth is, I ran into my dad outside the Strongest Man competition (don’t ask, super embarrassing, no-I’m-not-gonna-tell-you). The fair-runners called for backup after the first two melted down, so he was extra suspicious when he ran into me and Joaquin.” Here, Betty’s eyebrows lifted half-an-inch on her forehead, so he hurried on to forestall any potential questions on  _ that  _ subject. “He thought I was acting oddly and that I might have gotten dosed, so he dragged me into the back here a couple of hours ago, just as an older couple were being led out by his partner to bring them home.”

Betty’s mouth had dropped open, just the slightest, but still.

“Do you mean,” she said, wide-eyed, “Kevin, are you- were you- did you- are you on drugs  _ right now?” _

“If I am I think I need some more,” he muttered.

“Kevin!” Betty gasped. “So you drank some of the laced maple water, then, too?”

He shrugged, suddenly remembering that he had been searching for his phone in his backpack. “I told my dad I didn’t have that much,” he said, setting the pack at his feet to rifle through the front pocket again. He gave a silent cheer when his fingers connected with the Otterbox, then jumped nearly three feet (the Sheriff  _ did  _ try to convince him to go for basketball back in the day) when it buzzed to life, chirping the chorus to Rhianna’s  _ Shine Bright Like a Diamond. _

He pulled it out and checked the screen. “Joa-King of My Body” it read.

He pressed the phone against his chest.

“Betty-” he said apologetically, heart racing, “-I gotta take this. I’ll give you the deets- I mean, the  _ four-one-one,” _ he rolled his eyes at Jughead, “later, okay?”

Betty sighed. “Alright,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Who am I to stand in the way of young love?”

He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and set off around the corner.  _ “You’re _ my love, Betty!” he called over his shoulder. “He’s just my candy!”  _ My lickable lollipop, _ he thought to himself and ducked through the side-door into the garage without looking back.

“Hello?” he said, setting the phone against his cheek, hustling toward the open loading dock doors.

“Your candy?” Joaquin’s voice responded, amused.

_ Shit, _ Kevin thought. He must have answered the call with his thumb while he was running.

“Mmm,” Kevin said. “Yes, very handsome and intelligent and  _ fun  _ candy,” he elaborated, a bit breathless as he exited, squinting at the bright afternoon sunlight.

Joaquin snorted. “Thanks,” he said. “But maybe you shouldn’t eat too much, skinny boy - I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

Kevin glanced up at the sideways sign pointing the way back to the fairgrounds without really seeing it. “Oh, don’t worry about me,” he said, unable to control the silly smile on his face. “I have a very strong constitution.”

Joaquin laughed. “Where are you? Still in custody, perp?”

Kevin shook his head at the sign in front of him. “I’ve been released on parole,” he said. “But we have to be careful. There’s been three more- including my friend, Archie. My dad will be on the hunt again soon.”

“Fine with me,” Joaquin said. “I told you you didn’t have to do it, and I meant that, Kevin.”

Kevin closed his eyes against the sun’s scrutiny. “I know,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Uh-” Joaquin cleared his throat awkwardly. “I got you some cotton candy, actually. I’m by the western gate.”

Kevin laughed, delighted. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

He looked over his shoulder, half-considering going back to let Betty know he was leaving. In the end, he shot her a quick text message, then turned the ringer off his phone, stubbornly stamping down his rising guilt.

It was better this way, he decided. She would just pepper him with more questions if he went back, and he really hated lying to Betty.

_ West,  _ he thought, and found the Sky Coaster’s skyline in the north.  _ Never Eat Slimy Worms,  _ he reminded himself, then took off down the road.

* * *

 

Cliff Blossom was an evil man. 

No, scratch that. Cliff Blossom was an evil  _ tycoon. _ He was a businessman, first and foremost, and  _ business  _ came before  _ man. _ Cliff Blossom was Master of the BMI (Bustling Maple Industry) throughout the Northeastern region of the United States.

He had worked hard all his life to build upon his father’s legacy, and his father’s father’s, and his father’s father’s father’s (he felt reasonably confident it went that far back); he strove,  _ always, _ to retain the respect that was owed so heartily to his family name.

**_Blossom._ **

If other people wanted to pull back the tattered veil and examine his actions against an edge as straight as the one he used to trim his wigs - well, Cliff supposed they could very well stack up his deeds one upon the other like an obelisk of judgment and declare him evil.

He didn’t have time for that, of course. You don’t get to be the richest man in Riverdale (third richest in the county) and the maple market leader of the last two decades (Northeastern United States region) by wasting time with  _ self-reflection. _

_ No one schools Cliff Blossom, breaks the rules like Blossom, _ he thought,  _ No one suckers as many chump fools as Blossom, _ then he stopped, wondering why that sounded familiar.

He glanced around his polished study.  _ I use maple in all of my decorating, _ he thought with a satisfied smile. Maple mahogany- was there a more beautiful material in all the land? Cliff didn’t think so. He leaned back in his chair and propped his leather shoes up on the hardwood of his desk.

The gleaming rotary-dial phone (purchased and installed by his father’s father’s father) came to life with a shrill  _ bring.  _ Cliff jumped, his feet sliding off the table. He straightened himself, one hand automatically coming up to re-button his dinner jacket, before he picked up the phone with a soft  _ click. _

“Yes,” he answered.

His eyes traveled around the room as he listened to the caller on the other end of the line. His gaze came to rest on the life-size portrait of his family, hanging proudly on the wall behind his chair.

“Explain,” he ordered.

He studied himself first - whose eyes are not first drawn to their own likeness in any portrait? Cliff was sure this was a universal habit, a normal, even healthy, self-centered inclination to look at oneself as the centerpiece of whatever tableau he or she is part of. This, Cliff knew, was no more proof of his evilness than his enjoyment of the ABC Family television program “Pretty Little Liars.”

He’d worn his favorite red paisley pocket square and his comb over wig styled with a slight quiff. Just enough to show he was fashionable at heart, not enough to mistake him for caring a little too much. He was a busy man, after all, with many important things to think about.

The voice on the line trailed off uncertainly. Cliff shifted the receiver to his other ear so he could lean against his desk, still examining the portrait.

“Go on,” he prodded.

His wife, Penelope, still beautiful, still fearsome. Still loyal and ambitious, which had been important to him when they first met. Still faithful without needing the particulars, which was what he found important now.

His daughter, Cheryl, one eyebrow perfectly raised (Cliff didn’t see how she’d managed that expression for the duration of their time spent sitting for the painter), mouth set in an inquisitive pout. Perhaps a year ago, he would have lifted his eyes to the heavens and passed over her image without another moment to waste, but something stopped him today, and he stood, eyes narrowed, the telephone cradled against his shoulder, staring up at the portrait of his only daughter.

She was reckless and brazen, not as smart as she thought she was, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be trained. One thing she  _ wasn’t  _ was weak, he realized.

Not like-

His eyes slid to the last image on the Blossom family portrait.

_ Pity, _ Cliff thought. The funds he’d dropped - not to mention the time it had stolen from several workdays - to get this portrait painted, only now to need a new one completed just over a year later.

“No,” he said decisively into the phone. “Don’t pull them out of circulation just yet. If the Sheriff orders it, fine, but wait until he gives the command.” He turned his back on the family portrait, returning mind and body to the business at hand.

“I don’t need to get involved,” he said. “Cliff Blossom makes the maple syrup. He doesn’t eat it on his pancakes.”

He listened to the response.

“Well, obviously, it’s a metaphor,” he snapped, “I don’t eat pancakes, I’m on Atkins, you know that.” He hung up the phone and sighed.

_ Cliff Blossom makes the maple syrup; _ he had for nearly fifty years. That’s what his father did, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father. He was trained for it; he was bred for it. It’s what he was born to do - and it’s what he would continue to do until he met the grave.

* * *

 

_ Lover boi got me cotton candy!! _ Betty’s phone read, followed by a heart-eyes emoji.  _ We r meeting up, ill talk to u tomorrow PROMISE, lov u Betts! _

Betty sighed and tucked her phone away. She was happy for Kevin, really she was - but would it have killed him to come back in and say goodbye to her? He didn’t even come back for his bag, he’d just left it here in the hallway at her feet.

_ Love, _ Betty thought bitterly. It turned fine, sensible, upstanding young folk into hormonal, quivering idiots.

“Well, Jughead,” she said, turning to him, “it looks like our informant has bailed on us.” She smoothed her hands deliberately down her jean skirt, then yanked the ends of her ponytail to jam it tight against the back of her head. “Any ideas on next steps?”

Jughead, who had watched the passage of irritation into resignation flit across her face, pulled at the edges of his beanie in contemplation.

“Well, let’s consider what we know-” he started.

“Which is nothing,” Betty grumbled.

“A little more Nancy Drew, a little less peanut gallery would be helpful here,” he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, side-eyeing the little crinkle wedged between her eyebrows. “We know that six people have been drugged, including Kevin and Archie. Sheriff Keller believes the constant in all six cases is the bubbled maple water. Four cases were serious enough to require some kind of medical attention; those people were then brought home by Sheriff Keller’s partner. Archie drank a whole bottle, but seems to be recovering relatively quickly. Kevin says he only had a little and is back to normal now.”

“Right,” Betty relented, “so what we  _ actually  _ know is next to nothing.”

“Betty, for all my talk of being a nonconformist, you know it makes me quite nervous when people switch up their roles without warning.  _ I _ am supposed to be the curmudgeonly cynic,  _ you  _ are supposed to be the bright-eyed optimist, this is what I have grown to expect and it is what I am most comfortable with,” he told her.

Betty glared at him. “Well, you know what, Jughead?” she snapped. “You can’t always get what you want.” She swung Kevin’s backpack over her shoulder and stormed down the hallway.

“Sing it, girl!” Jughead pushed himself off the wall and ambled behind her, snapping his fingers. “You can’t always get what you want...” he sang.

Betty turned around and walked backward, facing him so he could see the magnificence of her eyeroll. He grinned and jammed a spectacular air-guitar riff just for her. “But if you try sometimes,” he screwed up his face, feeling the music, “you just might find-”

Betty sighed wearily, lips curling up as she reluctantly joined him for his surprisingly exuberant finish, “YOU GET WHAT YOU NEED!”

“Aw, yes, son,” she laughed in spite of herself.

“Betty!” he walked straight up to her with his hand held high. She rolled her eyes again but leaned up and slapped his palm. He curled his fingers around hers and squeezed, eyes bright. “That was transcendent, truly. Forget Archie and the Pussycats - Juggie and the Betts, that’s where this town’s music scene is going.” He let go of her hand and nudged his elbow against hers, prodding her forward down the hall.

Betty huffed a laugh through her nose. “Wow,” she said, “I  _ just  _ got you to join the Blue & Gold, and now you’re trying to get me to play in your jam band?”

Jughead shuddered. “I’m no Trey Anastasio,” he said. “Old school punk, that’s our aesthetic. I’ll be Johnny Rotten, you’ll be Patti Smith.”

Betty gave him a look. “Please, Jug,” she said. “I am miles closer to Taylor Swift than I am to being Patti Smith.”

Jughead shrugged. “Be whoever you want,” he said. “How’s this:  _ I’ll  _ be Taylor Swift, and you can be Johnny Rotten.”

Betty laughed. “Now  _ that’s  _ a pair,” she said.

They stopped just inside the open loading dock doors, blinking against the late afternoon sun. Betty checked her watch, then looked over her shoulder toward the office where Archie was still recuperating under Veronica’s watchful eye.

“Do you think…” she trailed off.

He glanced in the direction of her gaze. “You wanna go check on him?” he asked.

Betty thought for a moment, then shook her head. “He’ll be fine. Veronica is there if he wakes up.”

“Ah, but who will look after Miss Daisy Buchanan?”

She shot him her patented ‘Oh, please,’ look. “Veronica has all five seasons of ‘Friday Night Lights’ on her phone,” she said. “She’ll probably bar the door and lock him in if Archie tries to leave.”

They ambled around the side of the fun house back to the road. Betty hitched Kevin’s backpack up higher on her back, thinking.

Who would want to slip psychedelic drugs to random fairgoers through pre-packaged bottles of water? Weren’t drugs expensive? Why would someone go to such lengths to send a bunch of strangers on a hallucinogenic journey to the center of their minds? Were they trying to convey a message? And if so, who had the resources  _ and _ the ruthlessness to impart such a message?

Jughead side-eyed her. “I can smell the smoke,” he commented.

She tilted her head. “What?” she said.

“From you thinking so hard,” he explained.

The smile bloomed on her face unwittingly. “Jughead,” she protested, “you are so corny!”

He shrugged. “I’ve been called an eighty-year-old man so many times in my fifteen years,” he said, “I think I’m allowed to make a few stupid jokes. What’s on your mind?”

She chewed her lip. “It’s just- I’m having trouble understanding the motive, here,” she admitted.

Jughead nodded, unconsciously pulling the collar of his shirt away from his neck in an attempt to get some late afternoon air. “Who would waste their stash on a bunch of strangers?” he echoed her earlier thought. “And why maple water? I mean- why maple water in general, just...  _ why _ does it exist- but also,  _ why lace the maple water? _ And was it coincidence that it’s the only beverage that’s being served at the major food stations, or was that pre-planned?”

“If only we could look at a bottle that we know had been tampered with-” a sudden thought straightened her spine, and she gazed at Jughead with wide eyes. “Jughead!” she gasped. “What if the maple water hasn’t been removed from circulation yet! I mean- that’s not possible, is it?”

He blinked, shuffling through his memories of the past two-plus hours. “I don’t think it’s common knowledge, yet,” he shook his head. “There hasn’t been an announcement or anything.”

“But surely- Sheriff Keller-” Betty pleaded with him.

Jughead halted, a gleaming mahogany carousel spinning merrily behind him. They stared at each other. “The Maple Fest is organized and administered by Blossom Maple Farms,” he said slowly, “and Sheriff Keller would assume that Cliff Blossom would see that they were removed- he wouldn’t order him to do it, not without giving him the benefit of the doubt first.”

Betty blinked. “So- unless Cliff Blossom has called them out, the water might still be being sold?” she clarified. He nodded. “And- if the water is still for sale- then, that means… Cliff Blossom has purposely  _ not _ called them out.”

The carousel slowed in the background, the shrill laughter of a herd of riding kids competing with the bright carnival muzak. Betty watched the mirrored lights revolve once, twice, before coming to a stop, the conductor announcing the end of the current passengers’ fun and ushering in the next crowd waiting in line.

Her eyes flicked from the dismounting fairgoers back to Jughead’s face. He was staring into the distance over her shoulder. She watched the internal machinations of his brain flit his eyes from side to side. She could almost see the thoughts piling up, one by one, one conclusion weighed, found wanting, and thrown to the side for another to take its place in the bright, unforgiving light of Jughead’s concentration-

She pulled back, surprised, when his eyes focused on something behind her, drawing him into her space.

“What-” she started.

“Oh my god,” he said, eyes widening, voice hushed.

Betty turned to see what he was looking at – and felt the chill of an unwelcome shock strike her, lightning fast, in the gut.

Cheryl Blossom, red hair loose and California-wavy, tight green sundress clutching her sparse body, wobbled twenty yards away from them on mile-high wedge heels. And in her hand-

A nearly empty bottle of Sweetwater River bubbled maple water, bottled by the Blossom family.

“Hey!” they heard her raise her voice at a group of passing girls that Betty didn’t recognize, about their same age. “Your hair is  _ so great, _ it’s like Morticia Addams herself was standing in front of me,” her voice took on a telltale slur. “No, not yours,” she snapped as one of the girls turned to look at her, “yours is a Britney Spears-level disaster, ever heard of highlights?”

Betty only realized her feet were moving her toward this scene when Jughead’s hand clutched her elbow and pulled her back.

“What are you doing?” he hissed in her ear.

Betty stared as Cheryl reached out and grasped a handful of sleek coal-black hair, lifting it to her cheek. “I don’t know,” she murmured back to him. “But we can’t just stand here, I mean look at her-”

“Exactly,” he whispered furiously.  _ “Look at her. _ Do you really want to get between a tripped-out Cheryl Blossom and her latest prey?”

Betty watched Cheryl nod seriously at something the raven-haired girl was telling her, then suddenly break into uncontrollable laughter, setting her wedge heels as far apart as her skirt would allow so she could clutch at her knee, bending at the waist for air. The girl took a step back, looking around uncertainly at her friends.

“Whoa,” the girl rose her voice to be heard over Cheryl’s peals of laughter. “Hey, I don’t have any money, or, you know- anything  _ else  _ on me.”

Cheryl pulled herself up to her full height (about 5’7”, with the heels) and pinned the girl with such a look that Betty was surprised blood didn’t immediately start spurting out of her nose, ears and eyeballs, her skin didn’t suddenly sport scales or oily boils, her dress didn’t morph into something out of a Kmart catalogue from 1996.

“And just  _ what,” _ Cheryl demanded, a frightening gleam in her eye, “is that supposed to mean, you little Skyler White-wannabe?”

Betty never was one to keep her nose out of tense scenes when she thought she could help. She shook Jughead’s hand off her elbow and took off across the blacktop.

“Look,” the other girl was backing away now, hands raised in appeasement, “you’re obviously  _ on  _ something, and that’s like, whatever, but I don’t do that stuff. I’m just here to have fun with my friends, okay?” She looked Cheryl up and down, from the bohemian flair of her beaded anklet to the overly tight bodice of her dress, giving certain parts of her a somewhat improbable lift. “Also-” the girl spread her fingers superciliously, “no offense, but I don’t swing that way.”

Betty broke into a run, the seriousness turn of this situation smiting her heart with dread.

Cheryl leaned back at the girl’s words as though slapped - and, like any feral cat, her first response after the initial shock was to jump into an attack driven by spitting, hissing, and (dangerously) eye-clawing.

“Oh, you  _ wish!” _ she snarled, getting in the other girl’s face. “You should  _ be  _ so lucky, you two dollar bottle of off-brand baby hooker body spray!” She swiped sloppily at the girl, red nails gleaming, but the other girl stepped away quickly, turning to her friends with a ‘Can-you-believe-this-bitch’ look. Cheryl wobbled dangerously in the space she evacuated, only managing to find her balance again after multiple baby steps upon her wedges.

“Stuck up  _ and  _ a wet blanket,” Cheryl pulled herself together, straightening her skirt. “What a thrill it must be to be friends with this one,” she gestured wildly at the girl, turning to her friends. “So sorry you got stuck being the DUFF,” Cheryl simpered at a somewhat mousy blonde, “but every group has one.”

The black-haired girl shook her head in disbelief, sleek locks cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall. “You really don’t want to be drawing attention to yourself in your state,” she said warningly.

“IN MY STATE?!” Cheryl screamed, completely beside herself. “What state is that, besides New York?” she spread her arms wide, waiting for an answer.

Betty skipped in between them, landing with a hop right in front of Cheryl. “Hey, Cheryl!” she said brightly, just the slightest bit breathless. “What’s up!”

Cheryl, taken aback by her sudden (and entirely unexpected) appearance, looked from Betty to the other girl and back again.

“Betty,” she looked her over, thoroughly unimpressed. “Looking wholesome, as always.” She turned to Betty’s companion, approaching the scene reluctantly. “Jughead,” she flicked him a glance. “How very...  _ derelicte.” _

Jughead looked down at his ratty t-shirt, two holes in the lining and another on the shoulder. “Thank you, Cheryl,” he said, “this comes straight from the 2001 line.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes, turning back to her victims, but the girls were already halfway down the road, sneaking furtive glances over their shoulders.

“Good luck,” Morticia called at them before she melted into the crowd. “I think your friend needs to lay down in a dark room with padded walls!”

“That little-” Cheryl started, lunging forward, but Betty sidestepped, blocking her path.

“Whatcha doin’, Cheryl?” she asked innocently.

Cheryl squinted at her suspiciously. “It’s a dangerous place, Betty,” she said, “to stand between me and the last word.”

Betty rocked forward on her squeaky clean white-and-pink sneakers. “Are you feeling alright, Cheryl?” she asked in a hushed voice, glancing unconsciously at the glass bottle still clutched in her hand.

Cheryl studied her for a moment, before tossing her hair behind her back. “Of course, Betty Boop-Oop-a-Doop, in fact, I am feeling particularly scrumptious today. That-  _ girl,” _ she shuddered with remembered outrage, “took advantage of my emotional state. I don’t really remember why she set me on edge like that, but her mouth was much too large for her head, didn’t you think, and her skin had that  _ awful  _ greenish glow, and I just found I really didn’t care for her at all, and then, well,” she sighed grandiosely, “my red hair took over, and I simply can’t be held responsible for what goes down when  _ that  _ happens.”

Betty glanced at Jughead.  _ Greenish glow?  _ she tried to ask him with her eyes. He shrugged, eyebrows raised.

“It’s just-” Betty started, “-we found out there might be something wrong with the water-”

“Ah, my harem!” Cheryl announced, looking past Betty, stepping around her to wave enthusiastically. Betty turned to find half the varsity football team, including most of the recently suspended players, sidling languorously around the carousel.

“Cheryl!” Betty tried again desperately. “It’s possible- I think- do you- you might be tripping!” she blurted out.

Cheryl shot her an irritated look. “Oh, please, Betty,” she said, “I came out of the womb in five-inch heels-”

“No, I mean,  _ on mushrooms!” _ She hissed. “Someone’s laced a case of maple water with magic mushrooms!”

Finally, at long last, for the first time in her life, Betty Cooper had said something that grabbed Cheryl’s attention.

_ “What?” _ she hissed back dangerously.

“It’s true,” Jughead piped up quietly, “Sheriff Keller is here, trying to figure out who’s behind it all. There’ve already been six cases that we know of.”

Cheryl looked down at the bottle in her hand, the last inch of water twinkling menacingly at the bottom.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Cheryl said slowly, her voice rising in fury with every word, “that I have been laced with a psychedelic hippy drug taken by unwashed hula hoop girls at dirty music festivals across the country AGAINST MY WILL?”

The football team was slowing their approach, glancing at each other in concern as they heard Cheryl’s words, took in her vibrating anger.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Cheryl said again, eyes nearly popping out of her head, “THAT I AM A VICTIM OF SOME CRUEL PRANK TO DRUG MAPLE FEST FAIRGOERS WITH MAGIC MUSHROOMS IN THE MAPLE WATER?!”

“Well, when you say it like that-” Jughead muttered under his breath.

“Cheryl, please keep your voice down,” Betty begged her, side-eyeing the football team where they stood murmuring to each other, giving them a ten-foot berth, watching Cheryl with wide eyes.

“I will  _ not  _ keep my voice down!”  Cheryl shrieked. “You can’t possibly  _ expect  _ me to keep my voice down! I am HIGH, Betty, I am STONED OUT OF MY GOURD, I AM TRIPPING LIKE A PIRATE WITH A PEG LEG!”

A small crowd was gathering now. Betty felt her color rise, the back of her neck growing warm, at their curious stares. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart, then grabbed Cheryl’s shoulders in her fingers, giving her a small shake.

“Pull yourself together!” she urged her. “We’ll take you to Sheriff Keller, get you looked at-”

“Did you hear!” Cheryl screamed at the surrounding crowd. She brandished her water bottle high in the air. Betty took a step back to avoid getting punched in the face with it. “The maple water has been laced! Someone has laced the water with LSD!”

“Well- mushrooms, actually-” Jughead clarified, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

Cheryl gestured at him significantly with the water bottle. “Yes, MUSHROOMS! They know! They saw it, they talked to the Sheriff! Who would do such a thing?” she sobbed dramatically. “Who would want to drug perfectly INNOCENT fairgoers at Riverdale’s MAPLE FEST, the MAPLE FEST that my family has produced for SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS WITHOUT ANYONE EVER BEING DRUGGED LIKE-LIKE- LIKE KIDS WITH A.D.H.D. BEFORE?!”

The crowd muttered nervously. Mothers gathered their little children tight in their arms. Fathers shook their heads and clapped their hands protectively on their sons’ shoulders. Grandmamas turned up their hearing aides. The football team discussed something privately together, finally coming to a conclusion.

Betty watched in dismay as Chuck Clayton disengaged himself from the crowd and approached Cheryl carefully, like a lion tamer approaching an unruly cat.

“Chuck!” Cheryl gasped when she noticed him walking toward her. “Can you  _ believe  _ this has happened to me!?” she demanded. “Can you believe someone would want to ruin the Maple Fest this way? Someone is trying to make the Blossoms look bad,” she raised her voice. “SOMEONE IS TRYING TO SMEAR MY FATHER’S GOOD NAME!”

“Hey,” Chuck said soothingly, “I don’t know about all that, but I can take you home, Cheryl, since you’re not feeling well.”

“I don’t think that’s a great idea-” Betty said uneasily.

Chuck threw her a look. “Take it easy, Mother of Dragons,” he sneered at her. “I don’t take advantage of girls who aren’t in their right mind- and you should know all about  _ that.” _

Betty felt the icy black wave seeping up from her stomach, crowding out the edges of her sight. She saw Jughead shift beside her, glancing at her with concern, and she scrabbled herself back over the ledge, shoving the darkness deep down inside her, where it belonged.

“So, what do you say, Cheryl?” Chuck asked, turning back to her. “Would you like me to take you home?”

Cheryl paused a moment, appearing to consider something, her eyes flicking from the crowd to Betty to Chuck. Then she threw back her head, raising her hands to her neck with a flutter.

“Oh, Chuck,” she trilled, “you are such a tall, dark handsome hero.”

He smirked and threw his arm around her shoulder, guiding her away. Betty watched, feeling forcefully that she should do something to stop this, but unable to think how.

“Thank you, Betty!” Cheryl called over her shoulder. “I might never have known that the WATER IS NOT SAFE TO DRINK BECAUSE IT IS LACED WITH MAGIC MUSHROOMS without you!” She turned forward again, walking through the buzzing crowd with a flounce.

“Did you hear what she said?” Betty heard someone ask their neighbor.

“That was the  _ Blossom  _ girl, Cliff Blossom’s daughter was drugged at their own Maple Fest-”

“The water’s not safe to drink, she said!”

“If the Sheriff knows, surely they’re not still selling it-”

“Mommy, I had some of the maple water, it made my tongue itch and now my stomach hurts-”

“I just bought a funnel cake ten minutes ago, the water was still out for sale!”

_ “Magic mushrooms, _ can you imagine? Where do you think I could get some of that-”

“You couldn’t pay me to drink that stuff, mushrooms or no-”

“I can’t believe  _ Cheryl  _ drank it, Chuck definitely was not expecting that-”

Betty whirled, wide-eyed, watching the broad back of the junior football player disappear into the crowd. She turned to Jughead, mouth open.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered to him. Jughead nodded, dark eyes solemn.

The last member of the football team disappeared from sight. Betty stood, frozen, watching the spot where they mingled with the chattering fairgoers, now clamoring with gossip.

“What do we do?” she asked desperately. “Should we follow them? Ask them questions? Or try to get Cheryl away from Chuck-”

Jughead shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “We’re too visible. Everyone knows we know, now, thanks to Cheryl’s tirade.” He pulled his beanie off his head in distress. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

Betty turned on her heel and stormed down the road, past the carousel, around the side of the washroom building. She heard Jughead clipping along behind her, so she kept walking until she reached the backside of the building where the woods encroached, providing a nice refuge of privacy and shade.

She leaned against the brick wall and slid down onto her butt, whirling head in her hands. The backpack jutted painfully against her back, so she slid it irritably around into her lap.

“God damn Chuck Clayton,” she said aloud, in a quiet voice like a prayer. The backpack landed on her thigh, something rolling with a  _ slosh  _ against her hip.

A disconcerting thought hit her, like a pebble crunching against a windshield, too quick to be seen, only a spider web crack left behind.

She wrestled within herself for a moment, then steeled her nerve and unzipped the bag. She reached one hand inside and fished around the bottom.

Betty pulled out a tall, clear bottle, glass glistening in the low-hanging sunlight.

Maple water, she thought. The water Kevin drank that altered him enough to concern his father, cause him to drag him to Merlin’s House of Mirrors and declare him the fifth case of psychedelic psychosis-

It was full.

She turned to Jughead where he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with her against the wall and held it out. He looked at it, then up at her, wide-eyed.

Betty clutched her fingers around the cap and turned. It opened with a  _ hiss, _ the unreleased carbonation fizzing up from the bottom of the bottle through the neck.

She met Jughead’s eyes.

“Kevin wasn’t drugged,” she said. “He lied to me.”


	3. Veronica Rides the Bull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to village_skeptic, who did not listen to me when I said NOT to look up "churning butter" on Urban Dictionary. You have no one to blame but yourself, my dear.
> 
> Please review if you enjoy this chapter more than getting your butter churned! (really, do not look it up)

Archie Andrews may have just been laced within an inch of his life with a dose of psilocybin large enough to send a small retinue of African bush elephants to the moon, but, all the same, Veronica was gonna have to kill him.

“Archie, I’m gonna have to kill you,” she said, not looking up from her phone.

He stopped mid-spin in his chair long enough to glance at her, then shrugged and pushed off against the desk again.

“Come on, Ronnie,” he wheedled as he spun. “I’m feeling much better now. Let’s go back out and have some fun!”

“Betty and Jughead asked us to wait for them,” Veronica said automatically, as if she had already said this to Archie several times in the last hour (which, come to think of it- was it possible that- could it be- oh yes, SHE HAD).

Archie pouted. “We’ve been here  _ forever,” _ he whined.

“Aren’t drugs supposed to, like, make you happy?” Veronica wondered aloud.

Archie sighed and set his sneakers upon the desk, halting the chair’s spin as he did so. He leaned back in the chair, back as far as it would go, balancing himself dangerously with his feet. He stared up at the ceiling and moaned.

“Ronnie, please,” he begged. “Please, Ronnie. Veronica. Veronica, please.”

“Archie, you should know I never joke about murder,” she said, “unless it’s a pretty decent joke, of course.”

“Ronnie, I’m so boooored,” he whined, dangling his arms limply over the armrests toward the floor.

“Oh, MY GOD,” she announced, pausing season two episode six of ‘Friday Night Lights.’ “Why won’t you just sit here and watch this heart-warming television series with me?”

“I’m bored,” he said again. “‘Friday Night Lights’ is  _ boring.” _

“‘Friday Night Lights’ is an award-winning masterpiece of modern cinematic television,” she said, tapping out of the app and sliding her phone in her pocket. “And I’m the one who grew up in Manhattan, here. Scandal and intrigue surrounding a football team? Confrontations between cheerleaders? This should be right up your alley, Mr. Riverdale.”

Archie shrugged, still staring up at the ceiling. “Hits a little too close to home, I guess,” he said.

Veronica thought about that for a moment.

She sighed and stood up from her seat. “I can understand that,” she said, walking around the desk. “Come on, get up,” she nudged his knee with her hip. At his excited look, she amended, “It’s my turn.”

She dragged him up by his bicep then plopped down in his vacated seat. “Ooh, toasty buns,” she said cheekily, wiggling her butt on the seat. He huffed a surprised laugh, then raised his eyebrows when she pulled up her feet and crossed her legs underneath her. She grasped both hands tight to the armrests and leaned back, tucking in her chin.

“Alright, Archie,” she said, squinting her eyes in preparation. “I’m ready. Don’t hold back on me. I can handle it!”

Archie grabbed the back of the chair and spread his feet apart in a grounding stance he’d learned at football practice. “We’ll see about that,” he warned her, then counted down, “One, two, THREE!”

Veronica gasped at the vigor of his spin. He was relentless, slamming the chair around and around and around again. The room dissolved into a colorful blur, her eyes watering as the air zipped over her face.

_ If this is what being on ‘shrooms is like, _ Veronica thought, _ I’ll stick with my red-bull-and-vodka, thanks! _

“I give up, Archie!” she shrieked, hair scattered in her mouth. “I surrender, put me back on solid ground!”

“NEVER!” he shouted, unrelenting, swiping out to push her faster.

“Archie!” she gasped, hysterical giggles rising up from her sloshing stomach, “I’m gonna be sick!”

“That’s the price you pay!” he huffed with exertion. “We coulda been on the Ferris wheel right now, eating cotton candy, but nooooo!”

Veronica, jostled by the tenacious grip of centrifugal motion, felt herself sliding to one side of the chair and over the armrest.

“Archie, I’m gonna fall!” she screeched. Her phone, wedged painfully against her hip and the armrest, buzzed unexpectedly in the pocket of her dress. “Archie, my phone is ringing!”

He reached out and grasped the seat back, bringing the spinning chair to a halt. Veronica, a bit more boneless than usual, rolled back into the center and slid ungracefully onto the floor.

“Hello?” she said breathlessly into her phone. Archie pulled the chair out from behind her and plopped himself back down upon it. “Oh, hi... Jughead,” she said, glancing up at Archie with a ‘well-that’s-odd’ look. Archie leaned forward, setting his elbows upon his knees, and listened.

“Yep, Archie’s fine. We’re still here in the office,” she said.

_ “I’m feeling much better,” _ Archie hissed at her.

“Archie’s feeling much better,” she repeated, rolling her eyes at him. “Oh,” she said after another moment, consternation flitting over her face. “Oh?” she asked, eyes widening, and listened intently for a few seconds. “Ooooooh,” she breathed, lips curling up in mirthful delight.

“What? What?  _ What?”  _ Archie asked.

“Cheryl just had a meltdown,” she said over her shoulder, then returned to the phone. “I can’t  _ believe  _ I missed it, who died?”

Another second, then- “Noooo,” she gasped. “He did  _ not!” _

“What?” Archie butted in. “Who didn’t what?”

“Chuck Clayton,” she tried to explain, then, “Oh. Okay. Sure, Jughead, just a second.” Veronica slid around on the floor and held the phone out to Archie.

Archie pressed it to his ear eagerly. “Jug, what is going on, give me the four-one-one!”

He paused. “You’re... welcome?” he said, confused. “But you told me what it means just last week, so it’s not  _ that  _ surprising that I would use it correctly.” He nodded, listening, then shook his head.

“You think- no way,” he asserted. “Chuck can go too far in a lot of things, but he wouldn’t go  _ that  _ far.”

It was Veronica’s turn to listen in from the outside, eyes wide. “Chuck?” she hissed. “They think  _ Chuck-” _

Archie waved at her to be quiet. She tilted her nose at him and settled back on the floor, arms crossed.

“Alright,” Archie said. “If you think that’s best, I’ll see what I can do.” Another pause. “Yes, I really am feeling better,” he assured him. “The bright lights have quieted down and the colors aren’t so swirly anymore. I’m all amped up, though,” Archie pounded his knee. “I want to get out there and  _ do  _ something.”

Veronica passed her hand over her mouth to hide her grin. It occurred to her that it was probably a good thing that Archie was so wound up in his  _ football, _ and his  _ music, _ and his dad’s  _ work, _ and chasing  _ girls, _ because if he wasn’t so distracted all the time, he’d likely menace Riverdale with all his energy, and wind up mixing pop rocks with soda and blowing up the town, or something.

“You got it, Jug,” he said. “I’ll text you later so we can meet up.” He nodded. “You too,” he ended the call, handing the phone back to Veronica.

“I,” he said proudly, drawing himself up out of the chair, “have been given an undercover mission.”

“Uh, what now?” Veronica demanded, holding out her hand imperiously from her spot on the floor. Archie gamely grasped her wrist and pulled her up.

“Betty and Jughead want me to tail the football team,” he explained. “They heard something to make them think Chuck and some of the other players might be involved with all this.”

Veronica looked at him, concerned. “Are you sure you’re up for that, Archie?” she asked. “I mean, not two hours ago you were ranting about the proportion of freckles on your arms to M&Ms in a McFlurry.”

His eyes darkened. “They NEVER put enough in!” he exclaimed, then sighed, rubbed his face and re-centered himself. “I love you, Ronnie,” he said, “but if we stay cooped up in here, one or both of our bodies are going to be found by the cleaning crew tomorrow morning.”

“Preach it, sister,” Veronica muttered, then was struck by another thought. “Hold up,” she said. “If you’re engaging in clandestine espionage with the football team, and our friends Mulder and Scully are off searching for the truth, what am I supposed to do?”

Archie shrugged, picked up her sun hat from its place by the door and held it out to her. “I saw a pretty scary-looking mechanical bull next to the Helter Skelter,” he suggested. “You could see if you’re any good.”

Veronica glared at him and jammed the hat on her head. “Archie,” she said haughtily, “I’m good at everything I try my hand at. Except archery,” she admitted. “That was a straight-up disaster.”

* * *

 

It was after 5:00 in the afternoon, the time society deemed acceptable to start drinking.

F.P. only had four beers per night to ration across the next seven-plus hours, though, so (ironically enough - and God, he loved irony, except for when it bashed him across the face with its backhand, which was, if he thought about it, pretty God damn ironic) 5:00 was typically the most excruciating hour of the day for him.

He supposed he wasn’t going to be collecting any more chips with his little “four beers per night” rule, and he couldn’t imagine that his sponsor would approve- but, hey, Terry was holed up on the other side of town, three hookers deep in a broken down house with strange cooking equipment in the basement, so F.P. considered his whole “hanging on by his chipped fingernails” situation a screaming success.

He wiped greasy hands on a rag, then stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans. He passed a dusty forearm across the sweat on his temples, opened the fuel valve, set the throttle and pumped the starter cord once- twice- three times. The engine sputtered to life. F.P. moved the throttle carefully, listening as the generator took on a healthy, happy hum.

“Should be all set now,” he informed the festival staff member who had radioed for backup, getting up off his knees. The girl (she couldn’t be more than 25, and hell, when did he get so old that a mid-twenties woman had become a preciously cute species as foreign to him as an alien?) thanked him profusely, then tried to offer him and his partner a beverage for their help.

“I can get you a lemon shake-up from the stand around the corner,” she thumbed behind her, “or we have some domestics on draught just down the road.”

F.P.’s ears perked up in spite of himself. He checked his watch. 5:45.

_ Fuck it, _ he thought, and opened his mouth to accept.

“So long as it’s not the water you folks are selling,” Danny cut him off. “Hear that stuff will send you straight to the Andromeda galaxy.”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she checked behind her before leaning in. “I know!” she whispered. “Can you believe it! I heard the Blossom girl totally caused a scene, and apparently a football player from Riverdale High had some, too.” She shook her head. “We totally should have upped the price!” she joked.

F.P. looked between her and Danny, lost.

“What’s the matter with the water?” he asked, cracking a confused smile.

Danny raised his eyebrows at him. “I’m surprised  _ you _ don’t know,” he said, with just the barest edge to his voice that the Maple Fest girl wouldn’t pick up on, but that scratched down F.P.’s spine like Styrofoam sliding together, “thought you heard everything that goes on in this town, even before it happens.”

“A case of the bubbled maple water was laced with hallucinogenic mushrooms,” the girl told him. “A handful of pretty random-seeming people were laced. The Sheriff just announced it to the staff,” she gestured to the currently-silent walkie-talkie clipped at her waist, “he’s called all the water out of circulation so his team can go through them and trace it back to delivery.”

Danny pulled his ball cap off his head, shook out his sweaty hair, and repositioned it with a flirty smile. “Sure you didn’t save one for a good time?” he asked. “Maybe to share?”

She laughed, the forward set of her shoulders a clear indication to F.P. that she was growing uncomfortable. “Uh- no,” she said. “Maple-flavored water is not really my thing. So- beers? Cokes? What can I get you guys?”

“Nothing, thanks,” F.P. said quickly before Danny could respond. “We’ve got a couple other requests we need to get started on.” He turned to Danny and shot him a look. Danny glared but played along.

“Yep, we’re just a bunch of busy beavers today!” he said with an “aw-shucks” voice. “I’ll be off in an hour or so, honey, and you can bet I’ll be back for a ride on your Ferris wheel.”

F.P. could read the “Oh, great,” on her face clear as day, but she just waved politely and turned, heading back to the control booth.

“What the hell,” Danny hissed as they started across the blacktop in the other direction. “Never known you to pass on a free Miller Lite before.”

F.P. frowned. He wanted to defend himself, to say that he was a man of taste, after all, a Dos Equis man or a Yeungling  _ connoisseur _ , but the simple truth was that Miller Lite went down his hatch as easily as anything else.

“What do you know about this mushroom maple water thing?” he asked instead.

Danny pushed back his ball cap and glanced at him. “You really don’t know?” he responded, the rising glee evident in his voice. “You really found out about this after me-  _ through _ me?”

“Danny,” F.P. growled, “don’t jerk me around. Is this why the Serpents were asked to provide support at Cliff Blossom’s Maple Fest?”

Danny shrugged. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “But the Boss made sure we were on this morning’s deliveries.”

F.P. clenched his fists. “I know,” he said, “but  _ why?” _

“The Boss said it was important that the shipments arrived safely,” Danny answered.

“Whose shipments?” F.P. demanded. “It was important to  _ who _ – Cliff Blossom?”

Danny raised his hands placatingly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I heard him say that he owed the runners across the border in Montreal a favor, but other than that, I really don’t know.” He pushed his hands in his jeans. “Don’t even know if that’s all related to this.”

F.P. stopped in the middle of the road, then paced a few steps to sag against the side of a food court building.

_ Shit, _ he thought, as the dread bubbled up from his gut, taking his breath away. He scrubbed his face painfully with his hands. This was  _ just _ his luck, wasn’t it? He leaned forward, fingers clenching at his thighs. He stared down at the ground and tried to breathe deeply.

He’d planned on calling the boy after he clocked out. F.P. wasn’t sure if he’d come to one of these things – probably too colorful and consumeristic for him – but he knew his friends would likely be here, so it was as good a chance as any that F.P. would get to see him.

He’d wanted to ask him to meet up, grab a bite for dinner, his treat out of his under-the-table carnie pay. F.P. rather thought that catching up with ol’ dad might be low on Jughead’s list of priorities, but he also knew that his son would dance  _ Swan Lake _ before he would turn down a free cheeseburger.

He guessed that was right out, now.

He coughed and spat angrily at his feet. The liquid sizzled briefly against the blacktop, before evaporating, leaving a white ring of mucus behind.

_ If that just isn’t a metaphor for my whole goddamn sorry existence, _ he thought sourly.

“What are you so hopped up about?” Danny asked, coming to stand in front of him, their shadows mingling. “Didn’t take you for such a narc,” he said.

_ “Because, _ Danny,” F.P. sneered at him, “the Boss put  _ me _ on water delivery this morning, alright?” He slammed his fist against his leg, then straightened, hands clenched. “It’s  _ my _ name on the shipping receipts, the receipts that Sheriff Keller is going through as we speak.”

“Oh,” Danny took a step back, eyebrows raised. “Wow. Uh- yeah, well, I guess you  _ are _ fucked, then.”

F.P. shook his head with a huff. He looked at his watch. 6:00.

Looked like that four-beer rule was going out the window tonight.

* * *

 

“Starchy Archie!” Moose clapped Archie’s outstretched hand. “What is up, playa?”

“Hey, Moose,” Archie said with a genuine smile. “Not much- I just got here, didn’t know who else might be around,” he stamped down a slight tickle of discomfort at the lie.

“Oh, yeah?” Moose asked, double-checking over Archie’s shoulders. “You didn’t bring your concubines?”

“My  _ what?” _ Archie said, eyebrows furled together like a spiky orange caterpillar.

“Your lovely ladies,” Moose nudged his shoulder against Archie’s, “the blonde-brunette-redhead triangle you got goin’ on is off the CHAIN!”

Archie rolled his eyes. “Betty and Veronica are my  _ friends,” _ he said, “and that’s it. Uh,” he scratched his ear, suddenly realizing that he didn’t know if the Archie that he was currently playing undercover knew that Betty and Veronica were here at the Maple Fest. Did they come separately with plans to meet up? Or did they come together and have some terrible fight and now none of them wanted to speak to each other, hence why Archie had sought out the football team? Did undercover Archie even know who Betty and Veronica  _ were? _ Wait- that was stupid, wasn’t it? Of course he knew Betty and Veronica, Moose had just mentioned them.

Archie cleared his throat. “I don’t know where they are,” he decided.

“Flyin’ solo,” Moose nodded, “nice.”

“So what have you been doing?” Archie asked, glancing over Moose’s shoulder at Skip Griggs, Guy Walton and the other junior football players crowding around the High Striker game. Skip gave him the laid-back chin tilt in greeting, while Guy went whole hog, lifted his hand, and even said, “Hi.”

“Archie, man, we just got off the Sky Coaster, and let me tell you, that ride is LIT,” Moose rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Guy and I went three times in a row. Sampson here ate a deep-fried turkey leg before he went on, came off and puked his guts out in the closest trash can, didn’t you, Sampson?” he turned to the other football player and snickered.

Sammy Sampson gave him the finger, still looking a bit green around the gills.

“Yikes,” Archie said mildly. “Uh- so, anybody else from the football team around?”

Moose shrugged, turning back to the game. “Not so much,” he said. “We kind of lost them when Chuck took Cheryl home after her little breakdown.”

“What’s that?” Archie asked, his heart beating a little faster.  _ Be cool, Archie,  _ he chanted to himself. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, set his hands on his hips, then decided that looked weird and ran a nervous hand through his hair. When Moose looked back up at him, Archie was holding his chin, a distant, pensive look in his eye.

“You didn’t hear?” Moose asked. “Oh, man, it was wild. Cheryl got into the good stuff, she was totally tripping her nuts off-”

“Nice, Moose,” Sammy muttered, hands in his pockets, listening in.

“Yeah, she was screaming her head off about the maple water, saying it was laced- actually, Betty was there,” Moose said suddenly, pinning Archie with a look, “and that emo lumberjack, Jughead Jones, isn’t he your friend, too?”

“Jughead?” Archie repeated, overemphasizing both syllables of his name. “Well- I suppose, the truth of the matter is, one could say, I mean- we have shared, uh, friendly conversation, and a- a- a cheeseburger upon occasion,” he finished, just barely able to stop himself from mopping his sweaty brow.

Moose looked at him oddly. “Right,” he said, “that’s what I mean. So you didn’t hear about it from them?” he asked.

“Oh,” Archie said, “uh, no, well, I forgot my phone today,” he felt great relief at being able to say something truthful.

“Ah,” Moose winced, “tough break. I’d probably die. Yeah, it was wild, man, your friends said something to Cheryl that made her completely freak out, then Chuck stepped up and said he’d take her home.” Skip sulked back from the game, shaking his head. He’d taken three good shots right in a row, slamming the hammer down with all his might, but the puck had slid each time just past ‘Nice Try’ up to ‘Whoa Girl.’

Moose plucked the hammer from Skip’s hands. He shook his shoulders a few times, loosening up, and stepped up to the plate.

“What’s going on there, anyway?” Moose asked, before hauling the hammer up and snapping it back down, his waist twisting with the impact. The puck shot up like a bullet, flashing past ‘Whoa Girl,’ ‘Easy Killer,’ and nearly reaching ‘HOT HOT HOT.’

“What’s going on where?” Archie asked, a bit lost.

Moose lunged from side to side, widening his stance almost to a squat. “Jughead and Betty,” he answered, distracted, and swung the hammer in a perfect arc. The lever quivered in the aftershocks of his blow.

“Jughead and Betty... what?” Archie asked, genuinely confused.

“Oh, come on,” Moose raised his eyebrows at Archie’s obliviousness. “You turned that down, didn’t you?” Archie opened his mouth to protest, but Moose powered on, ignoring him. “And now that Betty’s got a broken heart to mend, who’s suddenly popping up by her shoulder at every pass and juncture?”

“Uh- no,” Archie huffed a laugh, taken aback by the idea. “Are you sure  _ you’re  _ not the one on psychedelics, Moose?”

“Stick your nose in the sand if you want,” Moose shrugged. “They’re totally juncturing.”

Archie watched, dumbfounded, as Moose hacked the mallet down and sprang back up on his toes with the reverberation of his blow. The puck shot, lightning fast, right past ‘HOT HOT HOT’ all the way to ‘MEAT MASTER,’ the chime at the top dinging proudly. Moose whooped in victory, lifting his arms with delight.

“How you like THAT!” he barked in Sammy’s face, then turned to Skip. “Your puny little arms got nothin’ on me!” He flexed his biceps, kissing each in turn.

“Fuck off, Moose,” Skip rolled his eyes. “All these carnival games are rigged, anyhow, everyone knows that. Let’s go find another ride, one that Sammy can manage without upchucking his lunch.”

So they stalked off into the waning crowds (after Moose collected his prize: a slingshot that broke the second time he pulled back the band) and headed north, toward the collection of towering, though slightly rickety-looking, carnival rides.

They stopped outside the line waiting to enter and climb the tower up to the helter skelter slide. Archie’s eyes traveled distractedly around the circular tube, listening to the shrieks and laughter of the victim currently sliding their way to the bottom.

His eyebrows lifted when he saw a familiar-looking brunette tumble down onto the landing pad, purple toenails waving in the air in glee.

“Veronica!” he called out at the sight of her, before he remembered his supposed mission and stuffed his outstretched hand in his pocket, wondering if anyone had noticed.

Veronica popped up, twisting around to look for a familiar face before catching sight of him. She smiled, eyes flicking over the football players lined up beside him.

“Hey, Arch!” she called, then ran to retrieve her shoes. She slung the backs of her sandals over her fingers and jogged her way toward them barefoot across the pavement.

“Looking good, V,” Moose greeted her approvingly. He pumped his eyebrows jauntily at her, but she just snorted and punched him on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Moose, you too,” she said with a smile. “You guys taking the plunge?” she asked, growing faux-serious. “Weak stomachs need not apply,” she warned them. “I swear on the late great David Bowie I thought I was gonna ralph going down that thing!”

“Oh, no,” Sammy shook his head, looking green once more. “Not again,” he vowed. “Not again, I say!”

“Come on, Sammy-” Moose tried to wheedle him into it, but Sammy Sampson would not be moved. He stood as firm as a pillar holding up a temple crowded with people.

“I’ll stay here,” Archie offered, “keep Sampson company. And Veronica’s already been up, so unless she wants to go again…?” he looked at her.

She shook her head, eyes sliding into the distance behind his shoulder. Archie turned and saw the mechanical bull teetering back and forth, spinning in short jerky circles, first this way and then that, sans rider or interested parties. The carnie manning the ride leaned with his elbows on the control box, looking painfully bored.

“Veronica!” Archie turned back, fulling intending to rib her for chickening out (which she totally  _ had), _ but he zipped his lip and swallowed down his comments at the dangerous look on her face.

“Whatever, losers,” Moose said, waving them away like pesky mosquitoes. He turned to Skip and Guy, throwing an arm around each, herding them into line.

“Good luck!” Archie called good-naturedly as they shuffled away and ducked into the tower. Moose turned and struck another strong-man pose before being dragged away by his teammates.

“Sorry,” Veronica apologized, glancing up at Sammy, “I didn’t mean to scare you off it. It really isn’t that bad – everyone knows that hyperbolic expression is one of my greatest skills.”

Sammy shrugged. “I’ve already tasted turkey twice today,” he said, “I’m not gonna risk tasting it again.”

“Wise man,” Archie said, leaning against the fence lining three corners of the helter skelter ride. “Hey, so, Sammy-” he shot a lightning-quick glance at Veronica, “I haven’t seen much of you this summer, what have you been up to?”

Sammy scratched his cheek, squinting up at the top of the tower where the victims waited to plop down into the slide to take the plunge. “Chuck helped me get a job with him making deliveries with SurFire Trucking,” he said. “It’s been kicking my ass, but I don’t wanna have to work once football starts.”

“Really?” Archie asked, intrigued. “How did Chuck land that gig?”

Sammy shrugged. “His uncle- or godfather- I’m not sure, he’s related to one of the higher-ups out of their headquarters in Montreal. That’s where he moved from, you know,” Sammy said, glancing up at Archie to see if he remembered that tidbit. “So, I guess, when they decided to move their operations further south across the border, Chuck’s uncle called him up and asked if he wanted a summer job.”

“Ah, the bountiful joys of nepotism at its finest,” Veronica said brightly. Archie huffed a laugh for Sammy’s benefit, then turned his shoulders so he couldn’t see his profile and glared at Veronica pointedly.

“Not that I have any room to talk,” Veronica said quickly, raising her hands in peace. “Also, it’s not like I know anything about trucking, or summer jobs, or... anything, really!” She thumbed over her shoulder. “So, I’m just gonna... walk over there...” she squinted down the road, looking for a distraction.

“Why don’t you ride the bull?” Archie suggested helpfully. “You were just telling me yesterday how good you were at it.”

Veronica glared at him, her eyes flicking to Sammy nervously. “Oh, Archie,” she laughed, “I don’t think I said that-”

“Yep, sure did,” Archie nodded, raising his eyebrows at her significantly. “Don’t worry, Sammy and I will stand right here and wait for you.”

Veronica’s mouth opened once, then closed again, her eyes flicking helplessly between them. Finally, she turned on her heel with a huff and stalked over to the man running the ride.

“So, you’ve been working a lot then?” Archie turned to Sammy. “What kind of deliveries do you guys do?”

Sammy watched as Veronica slipped off her shoes again and vaulted over the inflatable wall and into the ring. She stepped carefully across the bouncy floor and approached the mechanical bull, now still, peaceful, waiting for her.

“Yeah, mostly every day,” Sammy said. “It’s not that bad, the mornings are super early, but we usually get afternoons off. We do mostly grocery stores and supermarkets, but Chuck and I were actually assigned to the Maple Fest the past few days.”

Archie felt his heart skip a beat, his eyes widening in spite of himself. “Really?” Archie asked, a bit too avidly. “What did-”

“Oooh,” Sammy laughed sympathetically, biting his knuckle to control his mirth. Archie turned in the direction of his stare, and saw Veronica drag herself up to her knees, crumpled and bedraggled on the floor of the bull’s inflatable ring.

“Didn’t she, like,  _ just  _ get on?” Archie wondered.

“Oh, yeah,” Sammy nodded, “she bit it,  _ hard.” _ They watched with varying levels of consternation and glee as Veronica marched herself up to the bull again and swung her legs over furiously.

“So what did SurFire Trucking deliver to the Maple Fest?” Archie asked as Veronica yelled something to the carnie, gesturing wildly. “Games, prizes? Did you guys help set up the rides?” he asked, a gleam of fascination in his eyes. “Oh, man, that would be so cool! See all the pieces of a Ferris wheel before it’s put together-”

“Nah,” Sammy said, “we brought the food.”

In the distance, the bull slammed Veronica to one side and then the other, but she clutched to its neck stubbornly, sliding nearly half-way off. She appeared to be attempting to drag herself back up by the tips of her fingers when the bull whipped around in the other direction, and Veronica went flying, legs flailing helplessly.

“Oh,  _ damn,” _ Sammy chuckled, “thought she had it that time.”

“Yeah,” Archie said, glancing at Veronica distractedly. “She sucks. So you guys delivered all the food and everything for the whole festival?” he asked. “Like, for the first few days and the whole weekend, and, like... for today, too?”

Sammy shot him an odd look. “Uh huh,” he said slowly, squinting suspiciously at Archie’s sudden interest.

“Oh,” Archie said, “well, that’s cool.” And he turned straight again, watching Veronica storm over to the poor carnie, berating him passionately, her whole body rigid with outrage.

_ Play it easy, Arch, _ he said to himself.  _ Just take it nice and nonchalant. You are one smooth operator, Archie Andrews. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t let him know what you know. Don’t jump in the tub before the water’s hot- _

“So, did SurFire Trucking deliver the maple water, too?” he blurted without thinking.

Sammy’s spine stiffened. He dragged his gaze away from Veronica (now approaching the bull for the third time) and stared Archie down. “What?” he said dangerously.

Archie scratched his chin.  _ Damnit Archie, _ he thought,  _ you had  _ one  _ job! _

“Uh, yeah,” Archie shrugged, trying to sound careless. “Well, just, I was thinking about what Moose said- that Cheryl had a meltdown and told everyone the maple water was laced.” He met Sammy’s eyes, widening his own innocently. “If that was true, and SurFire delivered the water, well... wouldn’t you guys maybe be in trouble?”

Sammy glared at him, hackles raised. Archie forced himself to return his gaze, giving his head an oblivious tilt. Between them, Veronica went flying in a perfect arc, her indignant screech muffled by the cackles rising from the carnie at the control station.

“So whacko Cheryl Blossom is on drugs, and you believe anything she starts screeching at the top of her lungs?” Sammy demanded.

Archie blinked. “Hey- no,” he protested. “I wasn’t there, that’s just what Moose said.”

Sammy looked away angrily, gazing unseeingly across the pavement to the bullring where Veronica lay defeated, staring up at the lowering sun.

“It wasn’t supposed to be distributed,” he muttered so quietly Archie had to lean in to catch his voice. “But those stupid Serpents came right up and started unloading everything, they didn’t even stop to check the delivery counts.”

Archie’s brows furrowed together, his heart snapping in his throat. “What do you mean, Sammy?” he asked.

“It was the Serpents’ fault,” Sammy said, stronger, gaining steam. “They wouldn’t listen to us, they just stormed in and took over. Why were they even here this morning, anyway? Who called them? We didn’t need their help-”

Archie saw Moose topple out of the slide, hollering, twenty yards away. He jumped up and out of the way, peering up the tube until Guy’s bright orange sneakers skidded their way down to join him.

Archie clenched a hand around the top of the fence, knuckles tight. He leaned in, growing a bit desperate. “What wasn’t supposed to be distributed?” he asked. “Sammy- do you know something about the laced maple water?”

Sammy looked up from the pavement, his blue eyes light and shiny in the afternoon sun. “It was just a stupid joke,” he said. “We only meant for our friends to have a little, not for the whole case to be distributed.”

“You and Chuck?” Archie asked, then skipped ahead to his next question. “Where did you get it from?”

Sammy looked as if he was considering answering, when shouts rose up from the helter skelter, Moose’s voice rising above the others.

“Skip Griggs, you son of a bitch!” they heard him cheer on his foolish friend, who had zoomed down the slide head-first and toppled, rump over crown, on the landing pad at the bottom.

Archie shot them a glance, saw that they had collected their shoes and other loose belongings, and were headed back their way.

“You have to tell someone, Sammy,” he said in a hushed undertone. “Sheriff Keller has been called out from the station-”

“No way, Andrews,” Sammy shook his head, then balled a fist in Archie’s T-shirt. “And believe me,” he said, eyes utterly sincere, “you do not want to get involved in this.”

Archie stared back at him. His words and his actions were threatening, promising danger- but his eyes and his voice were pleading, genuine.

“What do you-” Archie started, but was interrupted by Moose’s wide arm slapping down across his shoulders.

“What have you two Nancys been talking about?” he asked, looking between them.

“Football,” Sammy said quickly, avoiding Archie’s eyes.

“This season is gonna be SICK!” Moose exclaimed, turning back to Guy and Skip, who readily agreed. “I mean- it sucks about Chuck and the other guys,” he said, “but the juniors are SO gonna carry the team all the way to the district finals this year, I can feel it!”

“I’m hungry,” Sammy said. “Who wants some burgers?”

Moose shrugged. “Sure, I could eat,” he nodded. “Oh, yeah, you must be starving, Sampson, I forgot you totally SPEWED YOUR FOOD this afternoon!” Sammy rolled his eyes as Moose continued, leading them away from the helter skelter and down the road. “You upchucked your muck, you puked your dukes…”

Archie sighed, trudging a few steps away from the group. He looked over just in time to see Veronica make a full spin around on the bull (or rather, under it, as all her limbs wrapped desperately around it, dark hair swinging toward the ground) before it snapped in the opposite direction and sent her flying, once more, through the air. He heard her land, feet flailing, with a grunt.

“C’mon, Ronnie, let’s get out of here,” he called out across the fence at her. “I’ve completed my mission as well as I’m going to,” he said, “and you  _ really _ cannot ride a mechanical bull.”


End file.
